bulimia nervosa, in d minor

you're very pretty, in a heart-wrenching kind of way.
your scrawny arms, usually sporting silver or gold bracelets which look more alive than you sometimes, your skin is so frighteningly pale.
he loves you, you know.
yes. you know.

your arms lead up to your shoulder blades, like branches on a delicate tree. a willow.
a weeping willow.
shoulder blades. razor sharp, those, sticking out of your back as if they had been wrenched apart and away
from you.

he wonders whether you want to fly. one day you told him,
sometimes, i'd like to fade away. have you ever thought of that? just close my eyes and disappear.
i wouldn't die, no, not exactly. i would still feel the wind blowing through my hair, i would still see the grass rustling, maybe i could even stand up and feel
it beneath my feet. i love the feel of dew, you know. it's such a gentle complement to the scratchy blades.
you always go off on tangents such as these. other roads. other ways. other trains
of thought. you aren't very
concrete, really.
other times, i want to shine. to burn, like a flame, almost. it's hard to explain, i guess. or no, it's just hard to make you
understand. i want a halo, a ring of fire, i want to feel the power in my arms and veins and back and thighs and sinews. i want
to feel it racing through me, gaining momentum, destroying me almost. i want it to hurt, no not to hurt i want it to be
agony. did i say almost? i didn't mean almost. i want to scream and scream and scream and consume
everything, myself included.
does that make sense?
he didn't know what to say so he took your bony hand in his and held on as tight
as he could.
you looked away from him.
i'm sorry.
"don't be," he said.
i love you.
"i love you too," he said.

you had trouble
believing him, for a very long time. now you do, but it feels like one not-so-fine day he
will look at you and see how
ugly you are, how
fat you are. he will talk to you and hear how
broken you are, how
messed up you are, how
pathetic you are, how
desperate you are, and he will be utterly
disgusted
and
leave
you.

he won't. he never would. he loves you to the end
of the earth.
in fact, you are his
earth.
he loves you to the end
of you.
he just loves you.

the problem is, he wants you to be
okay, whereas you, you want you to be
beautiful. and both of you, you want you to be
happy. and those three, well, they don't always go
together. sometimes they don't even go at
all.

your favorite part of your body is your collar-
bones.
your psychologist says your favorite part of
your body should be your whole
body, without
exception.
but it's hard to listen to her, sometimes.
often.
mostly.
(always.)

people see you and they
worry. 'doesn't she eat?'
oh, she does. they look at your overflowing plate and they are
reassured. they smile at you and you smile
back. you don't want smiles, you want
love.
you have love.
maybe love isn't enough to
save
you.
maybe
nothing
is.
[_{sometimes, you'd like to fade away.
become nothing, nothing.
size zero.}]

you play the harp. you have for years and you're a
natural at it. you make it look
so effort-
less.
you make it sounds so
beautiful.
the harp leans against your shoulder and you give yourself
to the music, entirely. you melt away,
plucking at the delicate
strings with your calloused fingers,
sliding into invisible
worlds
of breath-taking
crescendos, diminuendos, measures,
music. it's beyond
gorgeous.
anyone could just stop and listen; anyone could just stop,
listen, and get completely
lost.

people see you and they
worry. 'doesn't she eat?'
oh, she does. they look at your overflowing
plate and
they are
reassured. they don't
worry
anymore.
they
smile.
you eat.
slowly.
panicking every
time,
every
day.
however many
times
a day
you eat. there are breakfast
lunch and diner, but all those spare
hours too. it's just so
easy
to binge.
you eat.
then, you
purge.
cleanse.
make use of those beautiful,
delicate,
calloused,
scarred,
perfect
fingers.
you
vomit out
all the
fat. all the
stress. all the
hurt. all the
anger. all the
fear.
vomit. throw
up.
puke. purge.
empty.

the doctors tell you it's unhealthy
to see your own ribs.
you nod. you know you're
unhealthy, but you don't care about
healthy, you care about
beauty.

your heart is flighty, up and down,
anxious, musical, tentative, like a
bird.
a bird in a
((rib))cage.

his hunch is right. you really do want
to fly.
flying. disappearing. burning.
ultimately, when it comes to you, you and he want
the same thing.
you both want you to be

free.