Perfection
Bulimia nervosa,
Or so they call it. I wouldn’t say I was too nervous about it;
Actually I was quite disgusted both physically and mentally.
It’s a disorder but I don’t think I have a disorder.
I’m normal! I know I’m normal! I’m perfect!
I have the perfect black bags under my eyes.
I have the perfect scars on my back from my spine sticking out too much.
I have the perfect pale skin.
I’m just perfect in every which way
Just the way everyone around me has molded me.
And I’m happy or at least I think I am. I mean my mom’s happy when she calls me "fat". So I have to be happy as well. Right!?!
I still put on a smile even when it hurts. My mom always tells me "being beautiful is painful". I must be drop dead gorgeous because I’m dying on the inside.
But I did this for them. For her. For myself. I’m healthy.
I traded my whole life in for these beautiful empty white hospital walls.
I traded my soft warm bed for this pathetic excuse of a hospital bed.
But I did this for the love and acceptance I’ve longed for from everyone around me.
So why is everyone looking at me with those sad eyes?