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It's funny, I think, as I cross the school parking lot alone. You and I are more alike than you know: we radiate different colours but we have the same distant eyes, messy hair and coltish legs; bodies that seem about to float away.

I feel connected to her in a way that only someone who's been there can lay claim to. I see her wrapping her arms around her upper body, her pale face, her thin frame - the way her smoky make-up makes her eyes pop out of her skeletal face. I wonder if she can tell by looking at me the way I can tell, the way I know: when you have an eating disorder, everything is a trigger. Your own body. Everyone else.

There is hardly anyone here during sixth period; I am completely alone, hugging my books to my chest. Walking slowly past the kids blasting their iPods, past the scene kids with spiky strands of hair sticking up on top of their heads, past the girls with unhealthy blonde hair that looks as if it has never been allowed to curl. I walk so slowly, dragging each foot, and looking down, I catch my breath and bite my lip because I can feel my body inflating. With each step, I am growing: Alice in Wonderland, turning into a giant.

Eyeing the picket fence, I curl my right hand into a loose fist and drag my knuckles across: Picket fence, picket fence, what is your story?

When it doesn't answer, I know it is more like me than I'd like to admit. Secrets, eyeliner, and hunger strikes: I want to be thin enough to fade right through, I want to be thin enough, I want to be thin.

"I cry third world countries!" I want to scream. I want to feel the skin on my knuckles break and pour blood. "I shake like starving," I want to whisper.

I will suffer in silence. I will suffer in silence. I will suffer in silenceIwillsufferinsilenceiwillsufferinsilenceiwillsuffer.

The pain in my body like a drum, an anthem. The day a boy in English laughs and says, "Anorexia is stupid," and I scream so that people stare; it snarls. In chemistry class, when a girl calls out to me that I'm getting too skinny; it throbs. In the girls' locker room, when she tells me "You're looking so skinny lately!"; it grins, baring fanged teeth. When she wraps her arms around my middle, "You're tiny," she says, "Your waist is so small"; it is huddled in the corner, holding its stomach. Shrink, it orders. Dissipate.

I am your pet ghost; I hide in your bathroom and sit, weightless, on your scale. I am your demon, I am always inside. I am your best friend and your worst enemy. I am your knife, I am your saviour. I am your disease. I am your disease. I am your disease.

So many girls, so many.
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credit for some of my icons gaffe

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