Eating Disorder Recovery

Sign of salvation.

Give me one sign that the measure of my worth is entirely dependant on how deep the valley between my hip bones dip; and I will hand over my body willingly to be ruled under your command, so that you may stretch and contort it into whatever shape you please.

And if you can’t do that…

Give me one sign that to be an acceptable human being capable of love rests wholly on checking the body a thousand times a day, playing the ribs like a piano missing keys; and I will give you the hours of my declining life, chained to your mirror, not mine, without the slightest murmur of complaint.

And if you still can’t do that…

Give me one damned sign that the inner peace and salvation from a world already overflowing with chaos can only be attained by refusing and denying, and a closed heart with no space for anything but a scale and a reflection; and I will be your slave without hesitation, no brain or mouth that objects in any argumentative way.

One sign is all I need to see; to know that it wasn’t all for nothing; that I haven’t wasted my transition from child to woman on an empty promise or a not so sweet lie. That this hunger that has torn my stomach to shreds was the only way I was ever going to be salvaged from the wreckage of a soul damaged in our man-made world.

But…

If you cannot. If there is no sign. Then I will house a body that sighs and bends, that can fill a space without any word of apology. I will get off my knees and stop looking for bones and spaces that do not hold forgiveness or freedom, or hope or love.

Give me one little sign, and I need it now, or leave me. the. fuck. alone.

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