I know you;
You're the one with the tired eyes. You stay up all night, trying to fight your body. It speaks to you. It tells you it needs food, or it will crumble to ash underneath you.
You're the one with the empty smile. When I ask you if you feel well, you ignore the question so you can't be reminded how broken you are.
You're the one with the skeletal body; you wont change in the locker room anymore, because you're tired of all those other girls teasing you about those pounds you can't shed. You can't convince them of how hard you're trying.
You're the one with the skittish hands; you reach for a cracker, an apple, and your hand darts back as if you were burned. You can't eat, or you'll get fat.
You are the one with the loose clothes; people at school make fun of you because of your clothes. You don't want to dress like this, but if you don't, they will see all your secrets, and they will hate you.
You are broken.
You are me.