She started because of something she couldn’t fix, a broken down mother and a brother in tears. She started because one day she was just there, demanding all of her father’s attention, and she started because to take that bight was admitting to herself that all those things were her fault, that she had no control at all. And she started because sleeping on the couch while he was in your room and she was in his bed was too much to handle. It was a heard year, the wounds were just being open and the emotions were pouring and the only way to make it stop was to obsess over something that wasn’t. A pound gained, a bight taken, a late night binge, suddenly the scars weren’t so visible and as quickly as her childhood came and went she was in control. She continued because she felt significant, because she was fixing them and not herself. And she continued because to stop her one obsession was to focus on what underlined that sickness. She continued because it was going her way and it was a way to let out her climax. Every day it went the same; every night she got her chance to feel like she was something. She was the girl who needed to be nurtured, the one who got high off of disaster. The girl who looked so happy and felt so alone but fed those cravings with her head over the toilet and she was the girl who never cared about school, or anything upsetting, because she had a sole to feed living inside her. And now she’s that girl who’s caught up in lies, webs of tales, appealing fathers and insecure mothers. And she gets giddy of the thought of not stopping. But she cries because she’s dying, because her insides are all mal`nourished and her sole abandoned her years ago. She laughs because it amuses her, why anyone in the world thinks she wants this. And she sulks in her disease day after day, because acting on it or not. It helps the time go by.