2,5

I never know what to say when he calls me beautiful. There is nothing pretty about counting calories or thinking about my bathroom floor every time I get stressed and anyway it's never enough. I went through hell and back and all I got was a few extra pounds. I've been through hell and back and now it's like I'm stuck with a snowstorm - the ghosts of boyfriends past haunting the back of my neck - sometimes I get goosebumps without knowing why. He tells me I'm beautiful and it happens very rarely. I say I will only live up to it if I lose all the weight; bones sticking out begging for attention; sometimes my forefingers dig the side of my thumbs: a desperate hunger for showing. He barely questions it or cares about my poetry and it's turned into a sad joke. The cliche of a girl that once was; the reflection staring back at me and I don't know what to say.