Beautiful Hey, tell me. Do I have a sick mind? Am I not healthy? The bigger the number is, the more disappointment I feel. I hate to stand on top of that scale and see the number increase, growing and getting bigger each time I step on it. The guilt grows bigger as I eat something. I panic inside when I realise how much I’ve eaten during the day. Feeling the fat on my body, touching, stroking my skin and feel the lumps, the scars... Grabbing the fat with my hands and telling myself how fat I am, looking at myself in the mirror as I let the tears fall down my cheeks. Is it weird that I think being skinny, showing bones is beautiful? If I feel a bone on my body sticking out, I feel happy. I see my hands looking bony, I smile. I feel and see that my ribs stick out, I smile. I feel my hipbone stick out and I smile. ”Have you lost weight?” - That’s the best thing you can ever tell me. I become so happy that I can’t think about anything else for hours if you tell me that. That’s why, when it all becomes silent, that I worry. Why? Why won’t you say that sentence? Tell me, tell me how skinny I’ve become. It’s not hard, it’s just one sentence, right? I lift up my shirt, only far enough so I can see my stomach, if I pull up my shirt any more than that I will look bigger. So I pull it up to see what I look like in the mirror. The result is usually disappointment. I never really feel truly happy when I see myself. If I ever feel happy when I see my reflection it’s because I haven’t eaten even once during the day. So tell me, am I not beautiful? //Thoughts.