My skin hangs weightlessly off my bones,
like an old shirt on a clothes hanger.
My stomach feels no hunger,
it no longer knows what hunger is.
My throat burns,
from all the times I spewed my stomach’s remnants.
My teeth rot,
the gastric acid wiping away the enamel...
yet my teeth are what remind me of the pain, the gain
I feel satisfaction
Pure satisfaction from my starvation
When I walk the runways
Collarbones sticking out a mile long
Legs like thin railways
I see satisfaction
They label me. Them.
The critics. The doctors.
But I don’t listen to them.
But the others, they love me.
The designers. The models.
Sometimes I hear that I could be thinner.
Then my hunger…
No one understands,
I’m still not good enough.
I made this choice from the start but
They’re the ones, who made me this way,
And they can’t turn me back.
Because no one sees what I see,
I’m still insufficient.
I know it.
I’ll never, ever be enough.
I’ll never be,