To be a body (after Blythe Baird)

When I was 12, I dealt with an eating disorder.
I dealt with anorexia again at 15.
Today, I am 17 and still struggle with anorexia nervosa. 
When my weak immune system and sharp collarbone are all I have to prove this truth, 
This illness has yet to feel real enough.
Once, 
I even considered cutting my thighs,
Because I grew desperate at 
the way my throat burnt after a purge
Noticing nonetheless that my body still was not thin enough.
Really though, 
It must be my body giving up on the calories it consumes.
Really, it is my heart aching from the little I’ve shrunk.
Really, it is me holding back tears when looking in a mirror.
Really, I really want to believe it means being so sick that you do not know you are sick.
Really, it is expecting an apology to come, from anyone, anywhere, so that it does not feel like I am to blame. 
I praised the idea that I would like me better
If I got rid of dangling muscles, fat, curves;
If I were no longer 
Fat.
But all I feel,
Is full all the time,
Hungry all the time,
Empty all the time.

Maybe sick and skinny just are not that worth it.