Perfection is a disease of a nation.
This feeling of tightness overcomes me,
My limbs shake
My hands wring together
Rising and falling in repetition, these hands are not my own
My eyes are wide in horror and repulsion
I’m frustrated but I don’t know why
So I give in and let the monster win; pretty hurts.
I spit the word out as though that will help
But the minute I stop, I’m faced with the horrible truth
It echoes through the room
Because this house is empty
Empty like I knew it would be
I’ve planned this so well.
Now it’s gone
The hard work ruined
The meals I skipped
The nights I spent clutching my growling stomach
The satisfaction of waking up hungry because it meant I wouldn’t have to think about what I’d eaten the night before
The pride of refusing something I wanted so bad
Of beating that monster
I look in the mirror and try to smile
It’s no use, I can’t escape
Pinching the skin, grotesque against the bone
Nobody can free me from this body
My facade is in the spotlight for the world to see.
This will mean a week of avoiding friends
Of wearing oversized clothes until I feel my bones poking through again
Three days of fasting followed by three 300 calorie days
To where I was before I found myself here
Next week, I’ll be better.
So I kneel on the cold bathroom floor
Raise my hand in one last “fuck you”
One final attempt to erase the damage
And watch my life slowly drip away.
Note** This is not a first hand account, but a very real issue inspired by both those close to me and in the media (Queen Bey, you take the crown for this one).