Dear Ana,

You're beautiful. You probably don't get that a lot, but everyone who is truly beautiful needs to be reminded or else they end up fat, alone, and worthless. Like me. You remind me of water lilies, light and airy, but always there. You're pretty in pink, and in purple, hell. You're pretty in every color because you don't have to worry about waistlines. You don't need food, or water. You're not a person, but sometimes I imagine you that way.

Sometimes I imagine you with silky blonde hair, down to your middle back, with a beautiful, sun-kissed complexion, but you're so incredibly cold. Your eyes, a deep kaleidoscope orangegreen. I can see your tendons, your collarbones, your perky bosum. From there, your waist sinks in, then when my eyes travel lower I can see your hip bones jutting out of your skin, waiting to be released. Even lower, your thighs are like chopsticks. Everytime I imagine you walking, they never touch.

Every time I imagine your legs, a green envelops my vision and the next thing I know, I'm on my 156th sit up, or my 34th push up, or my 59th minute on the elliptical.

You don't need food. You don't need water. You're beautiful.

I want to be beautiful.

Beautiful.

What is beautiful?

-adjective

wonderful, very pleasing or satisfying.

I'm not beautiful.

I'm not wonderful, or pleasing, or satisfying.

My collarbones don't stick out as far as yours do; my hip bones are barely visible under all of my fat. My stomach pouchs over my baggy size three jeans, and every time I move my arms and I can feel my flab wobbling about. My legs just graze past each other, reminding me of my lack of worth and will power. That's why I have you, Ana. You point me in the right direction. You're beautiful. You don't need food. You don't need water.

I'm not beautiful.

That's why I have you, Ana.

You're nurturing and kind. Your cold touch gives me solace when I know I've lost weight. You hold me tight at night, when the tears stream down my face and I have no one else to turn to. You listen to me when no one else will. I don't understand why. I'm a hindrence. I'm a nusiance. I eat when I'm not supposed to; I gain weight when I binge and

you're honest. You tell me I'm

And then Mia comes over. Rings the doorbell.

You let her in.

She leads me to the bathroom; you turn on the shower so no one will hear. She will shove my pudgy fingers down my throat, and make me watch and smell and hear myself purge my sins until nothing but bile comes up. You hold my hair back when I remove the toxins from my body. Sometimes two or three or four times a day.

You turn off the shower and lead Mia out for me.

As punishment, you make me weak, you make me hate myself. You make me run a half hour, five hundred sit ups, fifty pushups, an hour on the elliptical. Then you make me do it again, and again, and again, until I've pushed myself to the limit. My vision is hazy, my legs, arms, abs, body hurts. I crash on my bed, lying there sweaty. I'm afraid I might soak up my sweat in water weight, but I know you're there and you reassure me.

You stroke my hair, whisper in my ear everything will be alright as long as I listen to you. You tell me I will be beautiful, but I'm not there yet. I'm so scared of being a nusiance, so I listen. I'm a sponge and I soak up every word you say. Every insult. Every praise. Every calorie.

When I wake up, I see you next to me. You're still stroking my hair. You're whispering I'm half a pound closer to my goal. You tell me to check, but I'm scared. I'm fat and worthless and fat and stupid and fat and gross and gross and gross...

But I check anyway. I'm under your spell, my blessing.

My curse.

Three pounds down from last week. We both smile, but I'm not there yet. I'm not beautiful. I'm fat and worthless and fat and stupid and fat and gross and gross and gross...

We take a shower. I imagine your body pressed against the wall, and I watch every drop of water run down your naked body and I can't help but feel envious again. When I get out, I look into the steamy mirrors and I'm thankful I can't see myself after envisioning you. You're sitting there on the bathroom counter, watching me intently as I blowdry my hair. You sing to me a song I can only hear underneath the blowdryer, and you urge me to join you.

I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul~

Before the mirrors clear up, I leave the room. You're following behind me wherever I go. You help me pick out my clothes. As I try on my clothes, you tell me my ass looks to big and my stomach is still sticking out like a drunken uncle on Thanksgiving. I pull over a dark hoodie, and my baggy size three jeans. I'm cold and freezing and fat and cold.

Why Ana? Why am I so cold? Why do I torture myself like this? Why, Ana?

You always give me the right answers? So answer me now, please?

I walk downstairs, grab my bookbag, and suddenly the smell of toasted bagels and eggs and sausage links and butter take over my entire body. You're screaming at me, you grabbing me by the wrist and walking me out the door. You threaten Mia on me again. We walk to the bus stop, and you're still yelling and screaming and yelling.

I hate that you have mind-reading powers. We both know I wanted some toasted bagels and eggs and sausage links and butter, but I can't. I'm three pounds down, I can have something today. No, I can't. Yes, I can. NO, I CAN'T. You slap me across the face, but the smell still lingers in my nostrils. The bus arrives. You push me up the small stairs. You pick an empty seat for me.

You latch onto me like a parasite, feeding off my weakness, misery, loneliness, depression, will power, determination. You suck my blood, leaving my face without color. You say all I need is you, so you make me look ugly to everyone else. You make me pale and weak and tired and cold, but

nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

Love,

Vic.

A/N: three reviews = update!