E.D

🏥🏥Fucking eating disorders are not pretty, they are not glamorous, they are not edgy and indie. They are not delicate, osseous smooth skin covered hands poking out out of rolled up sleeves of oversized grey sweaters. They are not back and white filters and black coffee with 10 sweaters to mask the bitter taste. They are not not eating for three days "to be pretty" for a date. They are not long fingers gently cressing the back of a skinny girl's throat. They are not sit ups in bed and star jumps instead of applying mascara. They are ugly, repulsive lackluster illnesses. They are inelegant, parched hand wrapped around legs every 10 minutes to see if "I've gotten fatter". Fat, fat, bulging, chunky, plump, beefy, rotund, obese, oversized, obese, obese, obese, obesely odious. Ugly. Is me. Is my eating disorder. They are legging to show the world how skinny you've gotten and the next day your body dismorphia is so bad you are in genie pants but you're convinced they're your tightest pair of leggings. They are beautified images of different shaped and sized boys, girls, people with no gender, people that float between different genders because floating is all most know how to do and we are just lucky we are not drowning or not being eaten by the sharks of the ocean called life. Eating disorders are messy. Eating disorders are scary. Eating disorders are the fithteen kilometer runs that build up twenty K that build up to thirty K that build up to the dehydrated heaving chundering on the pavement so much you collapse get up and run some more because why stop when you can be skinny. Eating disorders are not pretty, glamorous, indie or edgy, they are life or death.