You Want To Be Small

You miss it. You miss seeing your bones. Hip bones. Collarbones.  Ribcage. You miss the girth of your tiny, frail wrists. You miss your spine, bending over forward and instantly transforming into a Stegosaurus. You miss your wings, the sharp edges of your shoulders.

You miss the secrecy. You miss the tricks. Waking up an hour earlier than everyone else to weigh yourself, hoping that you’d dropped, then thinking of ways to manipulate your weigh in so no one worries.

You miss the dark. Sitting all alone in front of the mirror. Staring at yourself, naked, reading the insults you wrote to yourself reflecting on the mirror. You miss crying, pinching your skin until it welted, pulling back the fat on your thighs to see how they’d look without it.

You miss the hunger pangs, reassuring you that what you’re doing is working. You miss the shoelaces that acted as a belt, because no belt was small enough for you. You miss shopping in the children’s section, where the jeans hugged your legs comfortably. You miss the cold, teeth chattering and body tensing up so much your bones begin to hurt. You miss the layers and layers of clothes, how they kept you warm during those cold nights. You miss people telling you, “it’s mind over matter.”

You miss the cold, teeth chattering and body tensing up so much your bones begin to hurt. You miss the layers and layers of clothes, how they kept you warm during those cold nights. You miss people telling you, “it’s mind over matter.”

You miss obsessing over other girls’ bodies, judging whether or not they do what you do, too. You miss scrolling for hours and hours, drowning your mind with images of what you want to look like – skinny. Dead.

You miss your demons.

XOXO, Ana & Mia

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