deeply imperfect

I dreamed of walking on an ethereal beach, a narrow strip of sand between a sheer charcoal cliff and an ocean of clear swirling waves. The shallow sea was tinted with the sheen of faint rainbows. In the distance, the sun rested on the horizon, a sunrise or a sunset or maybe neither. Pink and gold glazed the sky and shimmered over the water. I was weightless, leaving no footprints on the sand, as if I had not ever existed. I felt such happiness, as if the world had become simple. In another dream, a boy I had once known but forgotten, looked at me, turned to his father and said, "Some things never change." He was right; despite anything I do to my body or my life, I'll still be here, somewhere inside. I've always been me, even when I tried so hard to change, as if changing would erase my unhappiness.

"You're really pretty!" she said randomly, and I reflected the compliment back to her, wishing I knew if her words were meaningful. I'm not pretty anymore, not on the inside nor the outside. I am worn away, weak, soft, tired. And I want to come back to control, obsession, my life in the past, even though it was often filled with dissastisfaction and a coldness that penetrated sharply, freezing my mind. At times, it was comforting, stable, and rewarding, and I miss that. I want to waste away, though I know I will still be deeply imperfect.

105 pounds, aiming for 89.

Much love and thanks to
S.
.Nauseated_Suchende.
Little Miss Thin
The Lovely Bones
Judith Marie
Lucy's Shadow.