I am going to sound crazy but here you go.

I was reading some of my old blog posts when I realized I used to be bloody poetic at times. So I am going to try to write something new, forgive me if it is boring this is just how my brain likes to work sometimes.

Skin and bones, that is what society wants from me. What you want from me. What do I want, does it matter? "No!" they say as they slash me with words made of steel, and they glare with ice covered eyes laced with horror and unbridled contempt. I give in like always to calm the seas and return to that tranquil afternoon under the trees in the shade while we sip sweet iced eat and eat peach cobbler. The feeling of ice prickles up the back of my neck and I know more than anything I should stop eating. Ice down my spine and I tense electricity traveling down to my finger tips and toes so fast I might faint. "I'm full." I say, though I am lying this is the first thing I have eaten all week. It settles in my stomach like lead and I immediately hate the feeling. I beg god to kill me but the blow never comes.

Society tells me I'm sick. They say "Don't stop eating, but don't gain weight." This is a fight I have been fighting. I come ready, gloves on fists up ready to go to war with myself over something I am not sure I ever wanted. The mirror mocks me with reality as I watch the numbers on my scale go down but the size in the mirror go up. "Never happy?" I ask the mirror, and the girl inside shakes her head in a solemn no. I give in, I raise my shirt and I pinch the fat on my stomach pale flabby skin burdened by stretchmarks that lie like scars, torn flesh from fat moving in when the drugs moved out. I sit there now naked and look over my figure hating how I seem to expand the longer I look. Like the mirror is giving in and finally showing me what I knew to be true. My scale is lying to me. I look up at the mirror girl and she is giving me that look. The same look of vulgar disgust and vile hatred, that glazed over ice filled contempt that I can't seem to escape.

So I run, I run for hours till I am blue in the face and have fire running up and down my body; stomach full of lava and tears in my eyes. I run until I forget I am running and then I wonder where I am going as I hear the sounds of shoes on pavement. Feet slamming down so hard I know the ground would break. The concrete shudders as I run and suddenly I remember I am running. I feel horror rush through me as I stop and blood rises fast as lightning to redden my face, I sit there colored in shame. I dash home trying to keep my steps as light as possible. I run up my stairs and as quick as I dare step gently onto the scale which gives me hope. "Down a pound!" it shrieks and I hurry to jump off of it before it too has time to break. I run to my mirror and the girl looks so happy for one second before I see the look once more cross her face. "Not good enough." she says. And I once more try to appease her.

Broken and alone I find myself feeling torn between finally reaching the glittering tower that is my goal weight and remembering all that glittered is not gold. Clothes seem looser skin seems tighter but still she is not happy. I tremor, I shake, tears slip from my eyes like rain on a spring day but nothing is good enough. I find that the purple marring my skin is a broken blessed thing meant to save me. I wear them like war paint and proudly lie when under the authorities I am being questioned. Normal is an unknown thing, unknown is fear laced with toxic chemicals and burning acid. Normal is fat, fat is death. There you have it, I would rather be dead than fat.