Suicide.

Weightless.

My arms don't even fit. They wont wrap all the way around it. My knees are red from being on the floor, and my throat is burning. I've done it again. The cold, white porcelain is my commander, feasting on my sickness, living for my death, waiting. Waiting for the day my knees can no longer support me, or the day my heart can no longer take this giving and taking. 

As soon as that first bite hits my chapped lips, i can hear her screaming at me. It precariously gets louder, and louder. I had 89 pounds justified my whole life. If I could just get down 5 more pounds, worlds would open up and people would worship me. Because all I really wanted was to be someone’s everything. But I learned the hard way that bones are not a proper measurement for love. Hospital bed after hospital bed and I learned this from a boy who could not tell you the difference between anorexia and bulimia. I fell in love with destruction at age 13 and I will not romanticize the scars that lay upon my wrist because there is nothing beautiful or romantic about it

 But, i loved throwing everything up because of empty feeling, i was basically matching my stomach, to my heart, and anywhere else in my body. It made me feel infinite. Until she demanded more. Don't ask why i call "It" a her, its just, the way my brain works, i manifested all of my problems into a person the figment of my imagination created, and now "She" controls my life.

And honestly, i cant remember what its like to eat without planning it, or charting it, writing it down, something. Counting the fat content, and measuring my thighs to see if i deserve it, usually no. Biting my lip until it bleeds, and wiring my jaw shut to stop the lies. 

Its so embarrassing. The shameful moment when you force yourself to puke in a friends bathroom. Brave yourself before you walk out and hope no one heard, and they never know. I've done it in every friends house I've been in. But, i cant control it, i cant let it go. I'm sorry.