One Year Back:
Ribs sickly sticking through skin, spine running down my back;
Sunken craters haunt my face holding in eyes that don't shine anymore.
I didn't want to talk about it then, and I don't want to talk about it now.
Anorexia ripped at my wings and my seems and pulled at my very being.
One Month More:
Huddled over a toilet in a school bathroom stall, rejecting every piece of food taken in;
covering mirrors in my room so I don't have to look at the mess I've made of myself.
Friends are worried, family is worried;
They don't know where I am. Neither do I.
Another Month More (or Maybe Two):
I don't know what recovery looks like. For each person and each step forward;
it's different. A script can't be written for learning to live again.
But each day I feel a little bit better, the sun shines brighter;
I'm still here, and God, I'm glad I am.
Months Go By:
Edges are smoothed out. Bones disappear under he healthy radiant skin.
I'm alive. My body is alive.
Things are not perfect, and I am not perfect.
But I, and my body, are enough.
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