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.
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