I hate how you just flaunt your scars.
“Oh, it’s called the butterfly project,” you say so sweetly, soaking up everyone’s pity, their syrupy protests, “Oh, don’t cut hun! You’re too beautiful to cut!”
What the fuck? It’s not supposed to work like that! You’re supposed to be ashamed, and they’re supposed to be shocked, disgusted. I hate all of your drama, the way you fish for compliments. I don’t flaunt my issues for the world to see.
God, it burns…
The skin is hot to the touch…I’m scared.
I don’t know why I gave in. I just did. I gave up.
I’m not fighting anymore, and that’s what scares me. I don’t even care anymore. If I can’t be skinny, I just want the blood. That’s all I want.
42002) You know how there are those horror movies where there’s some creature trapped inside a girl’s body and she’s just screaming, “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!”? That’s how I feel about having food in my body. I panic.
(Source: confessionsabouteatingdisorders, via ithurtssomuch)
All I want is some comfort.
That brief little pat on the head before lunch, that heartfelt encouragement during last block…those are the little things that keep me going. Just the fact that they know nothing about my pain…it’s just their innocent caring.
