The mirror is sneering


















again.
She's screaming in her head
















again.
The vomit's burning in her throat















again.
Her ribs are showing



















again.

But she's still not content.
She's still whimpering in the corner,
berated by the constant stream of hissed threats in her mind.

She's slamming her head into the wall












again.
People are staring




















again.
She's huddled over the toilet
















again.
Her legs are too weak to hold her














again.

Maybe if she screams back,
the voice in her head will vanish.
Maybe this will all fly away.

She's not satisfied with her reflection













again.
Family dinners are scorned
















again.
She's wondering if she'll ever be thin













again.
Her eyes are filled with tattered blood-vessels










again.

People ask her if she's lost weight,
and she feels good for a moment,
thinking it was all worth it, and she finally looks fabulous.

But then she feels like hiding
















again.
She feels ugly, worthless, empty















again.
And she feels like dying


















again.

But this doesn't have to be,
for
there
is
hope
for
her
again.