Dear friend,

I am a broken girl in a broken world. I look in the mirror and I see a girl whose bones protrude from her face, a porcelain girl, made of glass and likely to shatter at any minute. I look in the mirror and I see a girl with fat rolling off her, about, an unglued menace who the world would be better of without.

I close my eyes when I do it, because I don't want to know how badly I am failing. Sometimes sheen I grip the porcelain sides of the toilet income up feeling relived, but other days I have eaten so little that I only spit up Nile, and an acidic taste coats my throat. I stuff the toothbrush further down, but I only gag again and again, not even able to preform a simple human reflex.

I didn't used to be like this.

Maybe I didn't eat some days. Maybe I counted bites and swallows and the scale was my angel and my devil, but I was never this. Never this half-crazed girl hanging I've the toilet bowl in an effort to push herself across the line.

I don't want to go back to the sterile ward, but I can't win. The days drag on, and I am too heavy to move through them. I am spiraling down a dark abyss but infant seem to pull myself out. I don't eat anymore, but the hunger that used to keep me awake doesn't come, and my thoughts are half formed whisps of consciousness. I am near dead, but still alive.

I am not like the others in the hospital, their willingness to gain weight and get 'better'. This is better. This is how I am. A stick girl who fell off a tree years ago and frosted over as soon as winter came.