Skin and Bones

Heartbeat? Erratic, fluttering, failing.

Weight? 79 pounds and dropping fast.

Bones? Fragile and brittle. Swiss cheese holes on the inside.

Skin? Dry and saggy.

Face? Thin, pale, skeletal.

Stomach? A sad, shrunken sack filled with the remains of fibrous, low-calorie veggies.

Breasts? Nonexistent.

Body Fat Percentage? In the single digits.

Menstrual period? Never started.

Years in fervent, desperate denial? Three and counting.

But god, I felt completely fine. Nothing was wrong with me, so why the panic? Why the worry? Why the shocked stares? Why the tears pouring from the eyes of my mother?

Death sneered over my shoulder and breathed in my ear, knowing I was blind and deaf to the obvious. It's easier to devour a victim when they can't see you, when they put 100% of their effort into denying your presence.

I wore a fake, ghostly smile like a badge of honor, pretending I wasn't crumbling inside. A few more pounds, a few more frenzied bouts of exercise, and my heart may have given up, stopped all efforts to preserve a swiftly dying body.

I tempted death every time I denied myself the pleasure of food, of sex, of love, of desire, of flesh, of imperfection. I was killing myself slowly, but couldn't see it, my mind warped and twisted, lost in a foggy haze.

Only now can I see what they saw. Only now can I look at old photographs and feel a sick shame burn in my guts, tinged with nausea and horror.

The human body is resiliant. The human mind equally so. I am living testament to that fact. I am not ready to die. Rather, I am ready to live, perhaps for the first time in my life.

So carry on, Grim Reaper. My flesh is not yours to take, not yet. I have learned that perfection is a fickle beast, and that even when my spirit is splattered on the ground, broken into a million terrified bits, I still have a reason to stick around and rise from the proverbial ashes.

Better luck next time.