Surface Wounds

I sat in waiting
rooms full of
girls who looked
nothing like me. We
had the same problems,
but I did not look
sick like they did.
They saw it too,
the shrinks and the
doctors. They saw
me and could not
see why I was
there.

They did not put
the other girls
on the scales right
away, they were
too fragile. The
numbers made
me cry and they
broke my soul
but they made me
see it every week. I
could tell by the looks
they gave and by
the questions they
asked. They could not
see bones protruding
from my skin, or
hear me gasping for
breath like the other
girls. They did not
see the tears I shed
every morning when I
got dressed, or hear
the cruel words I spoke
to my body, and so they
did not believe I
was sick.

Until I met Anita. She
could see and understand
that shallow breaths
and protruding bones
did not an illness
make. She understood
that my wounds were not
as visible as the other
girls, but that my sickness
was just as real and
that understanding
saved my life.

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