I'm cold, deep inside cold. My hands tremble a bit, though I'm the only fool that notices. My body shakes more violently than last fall. Scars worn round my wrist fade into the creme abyss otherwise known as my skin. MY flesh. This paper thin wrapping covering my poking bones is suppose to protect them. WAIT I say. I'm above the standard. I'm superhuman, I need no protection. Am I too good for food? As in I'm better than all the rest? Or is food too good for me? As in I don't deserve it therefore must steer clear of it furthermore? The complications of an eating disorder vary from mind to mind, from broken girl to broken girl. I can not answer for us all. I can only speak from my heart unto this keyboard, this rattley, click clack of my words being layed out for all to see. I wish I had the answers for myself. I've asked so many questions, but left with no response. I know not how to answer for when you ask "why don't you just get out before you don't have the chance?" Because I've won. I've achieved the embodiment of this disease and maintained it so well as to fool, trick, parade around in front of the world, on my stage of course, and perform what rarely goes unnoticed; the disappearing act.
