​”Her hair long and blonde shone under the florescent white light. One of her hands gripped her hair out of her face while the other clutched the toilet seat as she emptied the contents of her stomach for the fifth time in a day. Her slim finger hit the back of her throat again and by the end of it, she was left with the stale taste of laxatives. Her face let out a faint smile and she sagged in relief against the wall, knowing she was done for the day.” 

But my hair isn’t long and nor is it glossy. It’s dry and brittle and snaps every time I tug at it. My face is worn and lifeless with scary black bags under my eyes. The sleeves on my arms are damp due to the drool that I wiped off my chin in quick haste. My fingers aren’t slim and pretty because of the angry red scrapes caused by my teeth. I always feel like gagging because all I can ever taste is laxatives and by the end of it, all I can manage to do is cry against the cold hard wall, because I’m running on a loop. 

“She refused my offer to take her out to the nearest café with a ‘no thanks’ and a coy smile. And although she wore the baggiest clothes, it was clearly inevitable that she had ‘the perfect figure’. Her long bangs always covered her mousy face, which made it harder for me to gauge her expressions.” 

But refusing food isn’t really that easy, and and it takes more than a smile to turn someone down. In fact, it’s no smiles at all, it’s having a body so thin that you could literally see the bones through my skin. It’s tiny hair growing all over my body. It’s freezing to death even when it’s barely chilly because you have no damn layer of fat to keep you warm and it’s wearing sweats to school even on the hottest days because you can’t let people see that you’ve reduced to. Hair falls like leaves in autumn until you’re left with scanty patches that you manage to savage and cover your face so as to disappear into the shadows. 

“He hid his red scratchy eyes behind his thick glasses. He barely spoke but his sketches made up for it and he was often trapped in his own world. His earbuds often blared Panic! At the Disco and his pretty bright eyes scanned the words of Emily Brontë. His lonely days finally lit up when he bumped into a quiet blonde with the smile of an angel. And just like that, his days were golden again.” 

But my eyes aren’t just scratchy, they’re void of any sensation. Some days are spent staring at the darkness even in the day time and some days are spent in the blissful world of sleep. I can barely manage to speak cause I can’t seem to force any words out of my throat. It’s as though they’ll always remain stuck at the tip of my tongue. I can’t draw to express myself because I don’t have the patience to draw more than a damn line. And I’m stuck in my world that is no short of hell. Reading even a measly page takes the life out of me because it’s so fucking taxing. The only thing that gives me a sense of time is the constant music that my earphones sing to me. Sometimes the noise around me is deafening while the other times it fades into the background. And no matter how hopeless I get and no matter how long I wait, I never get to see an angel smiling at me. 

“His heart was beating in his chest and his hands were bloody due to the cuts on his thighs. The only thing protecting him from the bloody sight was his over grown hair. The noises remained a blur until he heard her sweet voice through the door laced with worry and concern. He looked at the door through which her pleading voice emanated. As soon as he had let the door loose, he felt her arms wrap around him, her consoling voice cooing in his ears and the gentle sighs of relief because he hadn’t managed to kill myself yet. And in the moment that she looked into his eyes and left a lingering kiss on the tip of his lips, he knew that maybe there was something to hold on to.”

The palpitations in my chest are harsh enough to make me feel like my bones are cracking with every shattering beat.  My breathing ragged and my hands bloody from the relentless cuts on my thigh almost mute the screams screeching through my throat; and when they do stop I felt like my throat is on fire. Looking at the mess I made I tugged my short hair, but my senses were too numb to feel it. With no one to care, I’m left to clean up my own mess.


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