People don't understand why.
When I tell them it is for beauty,
I received their sympathy.
They label me as a pathetic teenager,
chasing a model's dream.
When I tell them it is for control,
they turn their heads and their eyes roll.
They call me an OCD freak,
obsessing over my body.
But if I were to admit the truth
that I do this because I love to,
my words would be met with vacant stares
no one can relate.
Hunger is my cloak, my shadow, my best friend.
It makes me feel happily hollow.
It drowns any pain into a state of numbness.
It is a secret.
Unlike cuts, no one can see it.
The gentle gurgles.
The burn in my chest.
The stab in my gut.
This is how I cope.
This is my depression, my suicide note.
Not dying to be thin.
Starving to be hungry.