I only feel pretty when I'm hollow

When hovering between the deeply rooted hate for my body and my mind after eating breakfast which smoothly transitions into hatred for having had a pathetic doppelganger of lunch, I take a moment sometimes to think about what I’ve become.

This is not an eating disorder. I am in control. I hurt myself because I want control.

I take a moment to think about how I cry when my collarbones seem to feel like sausages again, thick and fat, looking like they’re about to explode. How I cry when I look fat to myself even though I know I know I’ve lost weight. I know this intuitively. I know I’ve seen the scales.

This is not an eating disorder. I am in control. I hurt myself because I want control.

My weight loss journey started with hatred towards my body. I hated seeing myself in pictures. Before I registered how cruel I’ve become I’ve already been eating under three hundred calories a day.

This is not an eating disorder. I am in control. I hurt myself because I want control.

I will never forget crying over bathroom scale. I will never forget how terrified I feel of food. How feeling full was not a crime but a sin.

This is not an eating disorder. I am in control. I hurt myself because I want control.