Extraneous emotion, fat, weakness. The illusory simplicity of skinny. Of clothes that hang and bones declaring independence from flesh. Towards perfect and willpower and space and hollowness and not this body, which is too much, who overwhelms me with her presence and needs that cannot be met. Each time I return home this emptiness tempts me. Sanitized. Sterile. Nothingness. No mess to clean up or hide. Order.
Why do I want to be sick? What am I avoiding? Do I want to be a part of this life? (Ask her this. In earnest.)
I forget the misery in deficiency, time measured in experiences lost, memories unmade, fears hiding beneath the crumpled blankets which suffocate me with their there-ness.