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Nobody knows fair for themselves

Fair is something only strangers see

Fair only has time for everyone else

Fair doesn’t care about lives cut short

Or stolen youth

Fair sees dreams denied

Knows hidden truths

And fair does nothing

Fair does not care about my tears and how they sting

Fair laughs,

Scoffs

As I suffer with the torture it’s inflicting

Fair makes no sense

offers no redemption

Knows no justice

*I’ve been thinking a lot lately about fairness and how fair has turned into an urban legend of sorts. We all think fair is real because we know someone who has seen it, but the only time we talk about fairness is when we are marking it’s absence. I had this thought about fair being hateful and choosing when it will make an appearance. What if fair is not the wonderful thing that we have made it out to be? What if fair only comes around often enough to make people believe it cares about us?*

Our illness sits back and savors the chaos it has created,

Relishes the sick eyes it has given us to look in the mirror with,

Laughs at the romanticism it has given the tortured spirit,

Revels in the judgment of the normal.

*I like to imagine my depression as sort of the wolf to my red riding hood. I feel like everyone in my story can see the wolf, but we pretend it’s not going to eat me and everyone else it can get it’s pointy little teeth on.*

WARNING: the following is potentially triggering to anyone with an eating disorder or body image issues.  it is not meant to corrupt, or inspire, or plant any ideas into your head -- it is solely meant to reveal the true nature of the disease, for it is much more than a labor of vanity; it is, quite simply put, devastating. there is no perfect model weight, there is no final goal; there is only a rabbit hole, and if you see someone falling into it, please, i urge you to reach out and pull them back up before it's too late.

she looks into the mirror like it holds all the truth in the world.  it is the only thing she knows that never lies.  she pinches the skin at her cheeks, her arms, her stomach.  perhaps, if she used enough strength, she could rip it clean off her bones.

she wonders what it would be like, to lose all the layers of skin, of fat, of muscle; to be a skeleton, fragile and bare-boned.  would she be satisfied?  no, never, for even then, she'd want to strip off the brittle tissue and cartilage, and be nought but the marrow underneath.