I am cold.

Not the sort of cold you feel sitting by a draft or next to a vent; no, the sort of skin-piercing, excruciating cold you experience by standing naked in a blizzard for three hours. Except that I am lying under a feather comforter wearing two pairs of socks, sweatpants, three shirts, and a full-length fleece robe. I just put on a hat.

I am a prisoner in my own body, held captive whenever the cold penetrates my protective layers. It starts at the edges, creeping inward until I begin to feel that dull ache in my chest. I hate my heart; instead of pumping warmth throughout my body, it pumps freezing poison. I swear my blood has turned to ice, the shards piercing my veins.

Leaving my house is torture. No matter how many layers I put on, inevitably I begin to feel the cold creep up on me. I sit perfectly still, focusing only on breathing in and out, curling my toes and clenching my fists to keep from screaming. This is agony.

I am constantly haunted by memories from six months and fifty pounds ago, when I could stand outside in the snow and smile. Now I stand terrified.

This hell is worth it though, isn’t it? Look at the lines of my collar bone; the angles of my hip bones; the fragility of my wrists.

I am sharp. I am clean. I am perfect.

I am nothing.