Every morning like clockwork she'll step into the bathroom, bare feet padding softly against the cool tiles, until she is standing in front of me. She then lifts the hem of her shirt until her torso is exposed and inspects her reflection in me, tracing her eyes meticulously, calculatingly over her own body, before her features twist into one of disgust. Just like always. She is never satisfied with what she sees in me. I can see it in her narrowed eyes every time she traces her fingers across her exposed ribs, against the hip bones that protrude and stand out like black ink on white paper, along the sharp blade of her collarbone. That unmistakable burning hatred. More times than I would ever be able to count, I have witnessed her break down in front of me and curl up on the bathroom floor sobbing uncontrollably. And then, she will turn me around. So I can't look at her. So she can't look at me. My only purpose in life is to exist to show people the good in them, and yet all she sees in me is everything she hates most about herself.
Anorexia Monologue ( Viewpoint: The Mirror ) - xieh
27 February 2014 @ 11:54 pm
Anorexia Monologue ( Viewpoint: The Mirror )