Sometimes, my walls erode faster than I can patch them.
Sometimes, I want to be skinny.
I want to be skinny with such desperation, that my soul is ripped in half by ice-tipped fingers, that my throat constricts, that my eyes leak, that my brain bleeds.
I want nothing more than to look in the mirror and see bones poking from under my skin, feel my hollow-cheeks beneath my palms, to waver on my feet from that exhilarating dizziness—
Because it is easier to want to be skinny than to want
A man to love me
To please my family
To have friends who I know don’t think I’m crazy
To be enough
To not be ashamed of wanting
To not be ashamed of needing
Feeling skinny is easier than feeling
Skinniness is tangible— a physical solution to internal injury.
But it isn’t real.
It’s real when he tells me I’m brave
It’s real when they tell me they’re proud
It’s real when they tell me they understand, or even relate
It’s real when my effort is acknowledged— an effort and acknowledgement that has nothing to do with being skinny.
There is no shame in desperation, in desire, in fear.
I don’t have to be skinny to be enough.