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You look in the mirror and what do you see?
You do not see yourself as a teenager with a sad face and hollows under your eyes, but as a mass of bones that distort into rolls of fat and gristle, a mass of skin that sags and stretches with the length of your limbs.
The mirror is not your friend, not even an acquaintance. The mirror is mold that you cannot fit into. You want to pinch and slice yourself into perfection. So you stare, and you poke, and you maim.
It doesn’t matter how little you eat or how much it hurts you to consume a meal. It’s in your pulp, to suffer. Just like it’s not in your pulp to be beautiful.
That’s what runs through your mind every time you catch a glimpse of your withering form.
Mom says you look better every day. Dad asks you for weight-loss tips.
What do you say?
>I need to be more.
>I need to be less.