Do Not Touch Me

Chapter 1


do not touch me.
i know i say that i am better but what i mean is that i am recovering.
what i mean is that i started planting roses in my chest instead of weeds,
but there are still roots ripping through me that make me gasp for breath,
and i had two best friends for years that no one else could see and every morning i woke up and decided if today i was going to call them ana or mia,
and whichever one it was she followed me around all day and whispered in my ear when no one else was talking and she wrapped her arms around my waist so tight that i couldn’t breathe,
and i forgot that beautiful things didn’t always have to be in black and white,
and i forgot that crash diets and thinspo are not beautiful things,
and i forgot that i wasn’t supposed to try to rip my body to shreds out of sheer hatred,
and i forgot that sadness was not my identity.
and i am in recovery,
and recovery goes like this;
day one is hard but day two is harder and week two is a nightmare.
week six is fine, week eight is fine, month four is fine.
but a year later it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life,
and everything you do makes your whole body shake.
you struggle to figure out how to keep his eyes closed,
and everytime a door shuts behind you, you wonder if he knows that you are not alone,
you wonder if he noticed ana slipping into the room behind you,
you wonder if he hears her too every time he touches you,
you wonder if she’s thinking her own thoughts or if she’s just reading his mind,
and if she didn’t get into the room before the door shut then she’ll spill out of his mouth the minute your shirt comes off.
she will turn his fingers into razor blades as they touch your skin,
and you know that someone touching you was never meant to feel like a suicide attempt, but it does,
and maybe that explains why you still manage to love it despite the clamouring of insecurities that orbit around your body.
you don’t understand why he doesn’t recoil in disgust,
you will never understand why he doesn’t recoil in disgust,
you will call it a mistake.
you will call it pity and you will say that it is the knowledge of the hatred you host for your body in your stomach that makes him not express a hatred for it.
ana stands behind you and she smiles and laughs and nods along in agreement,
reminds you of how you shouldn’t believe him when he calls you beautiful because at the end of the day,
you will still come home to her arms every night.
when his hands trail along your waist or down your stomach,
her nails drag like claws up your legs,
ripping your skin to shreds.
in your head it will scream ‘touch collarbone, touch breasts, touch legs, touch hair, touch anywhere but stomach,’
because your stomach, oh god, your stomach,
your stomach might just explode if someone looks at it for too long,
your stomach might just expand if someone’s hands linger there for too long,
you might just have to rip your whole stomach off if you start having showers with your eyes open again.

i say that i am better, but i am not better,
i am in recovery.
and when i say i’m in recovery what i mean is that i buried myself six feet under the f♥cking ground,
and now i’m three feet under, and this is where i’ve dug myself to, and i can’t seem to get any further up.
yeah, i’m eating.
no, i don’t want to.
and everyone says that i eat far too fast and that it’s unhealthy,
but i don’t think anyone realises that maybe if i didn’t eat so fast that i don’t have time to think,
i probably wouldn’t be able to eat at all.


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