I am not a skeleton, not a fragile case of bones
with delicate limbs as cold and white as ivory
so how would they know?
How would they know about the skeleton that haunts me
filling my ears with deadly secrets
and reasons why I am not good enough?
How would they know about the monster I see in my reflection
staring at me through the mirror that is my personal portal to hell?
How would they know about the numbers spinning through my head like dancers
measurements that should define my health
but define my worth instead?
How would they know about the deep, burning hatred I feel for myself
the loathing that consumes me
like the very food I cannot bring myself to eat?
And how could they ever possibly know
about my time spent kneeling on filthy bathroom tiles
trying to rid myself of problems that I won’t really find inside my stomach?
All they see is the outside, the image I’ve tried so desperately to uphold
because I am scared of what would happen
if they could see the bitter truth.
I am scared that they will see the girl I really am, the girl I’ve tried so hard to hide
because she is broken, and I am ashamed of her.
I am scared that they will see how I am not as strong as I pretend to be,
how I am shattering like glass, smashing into a million glittering pieces
and exploding from the inside out.
I’m scared they’ll see how I am afraid to let myself be weak,
afraid to let myself break down,
because I think no one will be there
to pick up the pieces
of my crumbled, broken self
But most of all, I am terrified of the skeletal demon inside my head
this beast they call a disorder
but that I know only as my life.
And I am terrified to tell them the truth
because telling it makes it more true
Yes, I am terrified to tell the truth-
but I guess I already did.