95

You're so pretty.

Why?

Is it because my last meal didn't have any gluten?

Or because "carb" is a four-letter word I haven't heard in years?

My baggy clothes are cute

as long as you can see my waist

but what about the hip dips?

the sunken pelvis and the craters

that crowd my collar bone?

It's you're so pretty

until you can see the veins in my neck

or the clouded circles under my eyes.

I tell you I'm concerned about my thinning limbs

but all you see is a thigh gap.

Even if I touch my ankles together,

my knees still won't meet,

but at least it means I'm slim.

You're so pretty.

You say as you grab my wrist at the dinner table,

in front of a plate I've hardly touched.

I promise they're as small as they were the last time you did it,

but we have new friends at the table

and you feel the need to prove how much bigger you are.

It's funny how insecurity will go so far.

But when you take my arm,

you find something you don't like.

You're so pretty.

How could you hate yourself when

You're

So

Pretty?

I'm asked about my work out routine,

when my only exercise is an ever-increasing heartbeat

after a heavier meal,

a hard-hitting episode of

digesting normal food

just because it takes my body a little more

to get the job done.

95 and skinny.

Boy, you're so pretty.

I'm a spectacle until

you see how sick I get

how my skin delves into gaps

that aren't filled the way they're supposed to.

You find it gorgeous

until you realize my skin is a canvas

stretched past its limits around my bones

a skeleton, love

a bone canvas preyed upon by its own consciousness

lungs breathing, heart beating, but not alive.

How I'd love to see 95.

.

.

.

A/N

This is a sister story to a short I wrote two and a half years ago called 102, linked below.

I'd like to point out, this is not meant to be shaming any body or body type, rather call attention to the struggle that all humans face when dealing with body image insecurity.

Thank you for reading.

♡ Belle ♡