I have watched the love of my life

Fluctuate her weight

In attempts to control it

And control her disordered eating

I have watched her eyes sink

Her ribs poke out

Her hip bones grow closer to the surface

Her stomach reject food

I have watched her begin to die

And bring herself back

Only to slowly begin to die again.

Last night, we had a fight.

She told me she wanted to see her bones.

I told her she wanted to die.

She told me she wanted to be thin.

I told her I didn't want to go on shallow coffee dates and explain I am incapable of love

Because she is dead and I can't get her face out of my mind

And whenever I sleep with a stranger at a party

I still feel her hands.

She went for a walk.

I had a panic attack and tried to rip off my skin

Like it was a prison

That if I exposed my muscle and bone

I could expose my worried soul.

103.

That's what she wants me to compromise for her weight to be.

98 is her "goal weight" 

And everytime someone tags a picture of their thighs not touching as "thinspo"

I cringe.

Her disorder is not romantic.

Her disorder is her downfall.

Her ribs and sucken eyes are not something to achieve.

Her partner crying and attempting to pull out their hair is not something to brag about.

Her panic attacks over a number on a scale is not beautiful.

Her disorder is not beautiful.

Thinspo is not beautiful.

Things that hurt are not romantic.

And when she dies from this like I'm afraid she will,

I will spend hours upon hours reporting every "thinspo" picture.

I will cry into her pillow and wish it was her shoulders before they were only bone.

And I will accept that there will be nothing left of her faster and faster.

When we first met, she had lovely, soft hands.

Her eyes were young.

Her hands are bone now. 

I can see every knuckle.

Her eyes are tired.

I wish I could make it better

But her thighs touch.