9 of 30/ skinny/37

All my life, the most exciting

thing about me has been my weight.

People look at me and congratulate

me on my genes, congratulate me on being

skinny, on having a body that 

everyone wants to have, they tell me

to be careful because ‘putting on

weight is easy you know, and you don’t 

want to be that girl’, but the truth

is, my body is sharp enough to cut the soul

residing inside it, my collarbones

prick me at night, my skeletal hands are only

capable of shaking, my body is only

worthwhile because I know if I sold it, there 

would be buyers. All my life, the

most exciting thing about me has been

my weight, my angles transformed into

a label that has been sewn through

my skin, the needle leaving small drops

of blood on my back, so is it any 

wonder that I can’t eat without thinking 

of where those calories will go? 

Is it even a surprise that I only feel pretty when

I feel like I’m breaking? This 

body has been my shelter, my home, my

own, but most days it feels like

a publicity stunt, so I smile. I smile and tell

people not to diet, smile and tell people

how lucky I am to be so thin, smile

and try my hardest to forget this cage

that I can’t escape- I smile, but

I still don’t ask, still will never ask for 

a second helping.

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