This is not a romanticisation, this is a speculatory reality.

I like to believe that once I gain self control, I can progress. That is the goal. It grasps you, telling you there can't be a gap between your extremities, but your carpal shouldn't touch the skin within. This is control.

Control is looking at the scale and realising you're expelling weight every single week, 'til you can't stand without seeing stars. The stars are the encouragement- as my soma is reliant, I stay in control.

See, self control isn't close yet. I can't stop 'til I become sick enough. I want constant black skies, black tresses in my palms. Anorexia should be paradise, I should submit to the angels. I want people to agonise about what I eat, I want them to cry when they see skeleton. I want to take as little space as possible, because I like the pain in not being noticed.

The sad reality is that, it's never enough. It's not about control once I get to the goal, it's that Anorexia is all that I know. I won't be able to escape. Sometimes, I wish that Anorexia wasn't a bane- not calorie Asperger's, a sweet snack. But when Anorexia is your only personality trait, you become this bore that is an insubstantial annoyance.

I can't escape Anorexia, it's written in the stars. I know I won't stop, I can't. But, suppose I were to say, 'S'il te plaît, laisse-moi partir, chère Ana,' she won't care because, it isn't Anorexia to blame. It is I that assented to Anorexia. She was the abettor, I was errant. But society knows, I wasn't. She is the angel to a surplus, that surplus appertains.

This impasse will be my sepulchre, and with Ana's sweet words, I insist to be solitary.

© Sincerely, ♡