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That Name is Ana

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She stands in front of the mirror, looking down at her body. Her eyes are like hungry vultures, picking up on any scraps of imperfection. She sighs, lifting her shirt delicately off of her lean body. Again her eyes rake over her stomach. A voice in her head tells her poisonous lies. She runs her fingers across her toned belly, feeling the natural swell of her lunch. A silent tear threatens to roll down her cheek. She clutches her inner thighs, pulling them apart. She likes how they change, her thigh gap growing as she pulls her legs, distorting their already muscular and slim look.
She turns on the side, evaluating her profile. The soft curve of her waist causes her tears to tumble down her flushed cheeks. The voices in her head grow louder, shouting words at her like: Fat! Obese! Not good enough! Starve! She pulls her top back on, desperately trying to shut out the angry cries emanating through her mind. The voices have a name. That name is Ana.



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