When I was ten, I might a girl with a blurry face.
She taught me to hate every inch of my body.
She comforted me after the bruises mom left on me healed
and showed me how to make my own.
By age twelve, her features became more defined.
That was the year we took pills together and gave our lunch to the little blonde girl with freckles on her face.
When mom stopped coming around, I blamed myself
and steady hands from the blurred face eased my shaking ones
by pressing a piece of sharp, magic gold into my hands and running it across my thighs.
I didn’t hate myself as much anymore.
Until high school came and she was no longer a blurry face,
no, she was an epitome of beauty;
Helen of Troy, who’s face launched a thousand ships;
The blonde swimmer with the light shining through her legs.
She stalked my every move, never once leaving my head.
I was grateful for her at first, taking pity on me, helping me become the person I so desperately wanted to be—
Her.
Now, I have grown into a cowering young adult
with lilac gashes covering my legs
and pale, white lines gracing my arms.
My stomach is still round and grotesque, filled with toxins.
Now she forces me to get out of bed and face the desperation of never-ending days,
glossy eyed and tired,
terrified of numbers
and the things that keep me
alive.