Trigger warning: This post contains an extensive discussion of anorexia and abuse as well as brief mentions of loss/death.

Your body is heavy, self, like stone.

Muscle. Fat.

Self, it suffocates you, squeezes air from your ribcage, hope from your skull. You want to be bones; you want to live in ventilated skeleton house. Too much flesh, your flesh is heavy, self. Your heart is heavy. Your soul is heavy.

Unkind self.

Between your shoulders, the blade, the ache his fists left. Knuckles between vertebrae, body like memory foam. His cruelty heavy.

The one you loved, the one who died, his absence heavy.

The ones you lost and never found, the past heavy.

The words, the shame, your body evil—your body asking for it.

Ungrateful, unworthy, unloveable.

Be silent, self. Soul, self. Be still.

Forgive the self that did not sin by being self. Forgive the bones, the skin. Forgive the strength that numbers on the scale. Forgive the substance. You were miracle made, knit by hands with care; hands can be kind. Be not unkind, self.




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