I will not share my real name with you, but you can call me Micha. I am fifteen years old, I am a horse trainer, I am somewhat of a hopeless romantic, and I am bulimic. I met SticksNStones nearly a year ago, and have come to depend on her in every one of my endevers. She is my comfort, my rock, my supprt. I love her. And yet, I am probably contributing to her slow death, as she is mine.
Right now, I am sitting in the dark of my room, listening to the Wintergirls audiobook for the millionth time, thinking of the day. Of the time spent hand to mouth hand to mouth, stuffing and filling, and the time spent hunched over, wretching and splashing and emptying. Of kneeling in the shower and vomiting, half afraid I will again plug the drain. Of being so full that so much as a sip of water sent blades tearing through my belly and shredding me, melting my insides down to a gooey puddle of blood. Of talking to the Little Big Brother (an unofficial brother, we are close, and we love each other) and hearing him cough, and vomit, and cry, and bleed. He is hurting to. He is dying. I dont know if he will make the week. I am scared of getting his next call. Scared it will be a farewell.
I am thinking of life, and of death. Contemplating. Would it be easier than this? Would I even know when I was dead?
For now, I will lay in my bed in the dark with the audiobook playing. I will run my hands over my body, over the bloated bulge of my stomach, the rippled skin of my scars. I will find scabs and tear away the new skin and feel the blood trickle out in a whisper. I will listen to the rain and the wind. I will sleep.
Goodnight. Sweet nightmares.
Micha,
BLADESNBONES.
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