Beautiful is Foreign.

I zoned out.
My cigarette turned into a perfect cylinder of dull grey ash, and a thin line of smoke floated
up into the air distorting my view of the moon.
I was suddenly inside, stood infront of the mirror with my hands over my face and clutching
the roots of my hair.
"He didn’t hate me like I hate me." I choked out the words through mascara tainted tears that stained my face.
She stood motionless, watching me breakdown. I flopped down onto the toilet
seat and pulled out the poem he had wrote me.
It was written in blue ink, and slowly sloped upwards as it fell down the page.
‘You’re some kind of beautiful.‘
Beautiful. The word felt foreign, and it stuck in the part of my brain
that was still me.
He saw past what I had become. Past excused washroom breaks
after expensive meals, anxiety attacks full of starvation, and days where my eating
disorder meant everything – and he meant nothing.
I sat confused about the concepts of fat and thin, and if I fit into either category.
"I needed to break up with him." As soon as the words came out, she shifted her feet
and our thoughts became one.
It was just me and my eating disorder for good now, and thats the way I liked it.

The morning came slowly and my alarm clock ran through my house.
I turned over and looked out through the blinds of my window, admiring the green of
the leaves that hung effortlessly from the trees.
Soon the leaves would be frost bitten twigs – dying. Dead.
I wondered if I would still be here to see the winter.
And if someone would still be calling me beautiful.