I smile and force the light to show in my eyes so that you don't ask what's wrong.

I laugh and joke and take small bites; showing you that I'm strong.

I duck my head and shove another spoonful in my mouth so that you think I'm fine.

Inside I'm broken; bleeding; trying to hide. The me buried deep beneath my skin, beneath my bones, struggling to show herself.

She's dying and dragging me down with her, ignoring my silent screams, trying desperately to survive.

Yet the people around me go about their daily lives, as do I. Ignoring the pains in my belly and smiling at passerby.

No, this poem doesn't rhyme, and it's not supposed to. I'm writing this for me and because Ana told me to.

As I write this, Ana sits beside me. Sneering and yelling things that I try to ignore.

As much as I hate my reflection, I look in the mirror daily. See the fat sitting there just beneath my skin, taunting me.

Ana's watchful eyes express what I cannot say aloud but what I know is true.

You're fat; you're worthless; you're not perfect.

I try to block out the words as I strip down and step on the scale; watch the numbers talk to me; whisper things alongside Ana.

110- How's it feel to be a whale?

109- Getting nowhere.

108-Pssh. You think that's good enough?

107- Sweetie, just give up all ready.

106- Still triple digits, huh?

105-You ate today, didn't you? It shows.

That's it. The numbers stop there. They go no lower. Of course they don't; I'm a failure.

I step off the scale and lift the toilet seat; throw up every ounce of sense in my head that tells me not to; they just weigh me down.

I smile and force the light to show in my eyes so that you don't ask what's wrong.

I laugh and joke and take small bites; showing you that I'm strong.

But I'm not.

I'm dying; lost; dead to the world. Still I smile at you in the halls and gossip about the trivial things that normal girls whisper about.

I hold a regular conversation and giggle and joke. All the while burning in my own personal hell.

Not that you'd ever be able to tell.