The bright spring sun hurts your eyes these days, don't it, honey? You used to love it, but now you can't even look at it. Shutting the blinds, turning your back, burry yourself in work instead of going out and just be – like you would have done, just a few years ago.
But a few years ago isn't now, is it?
When your flat mate tries to pry you away from your desk, you shudder in horror. She's trying to take you out to dinner, because, like everyone, she's noticing with concerned eyes how thin you're becoming. How thin you already are.
With a painfully bright smile you decline, claim that you have to work, and ask her to bring you some take-out. She argues, but finally, finally, she relents, and you go back to your furious typing, editing your term paper.
When she comes back, hours later, you haven't even moved. She gently places your dinner at your desk, and you have to make a promise to eat it all up, before she leaves.
Half an hour later, you throw it all out where she won't see it, and take the empty cans into the kitchen. Dropping them on top in the trash can, where she can't avoid seeing them, you go by her room to thank her, and with a bright smile, you add how delicious it tasted.
All the while you know, you know, that one day, your lies will suffocate you.
-:-
Your looking like a walking skeleton, sweetheart, you know that, don't you? You know it's out of control, really, you do, but you don't seem to be able to stop. The lies come easily, and you hide your gaunt body under layer, upon layer, of clothes.
Everything is spinning out of control, slipping a little more each day, and no matter how much you try, how much you fight, it keeps slipping.
You're getting behind, and are barely keeping your head above the water, in school. Despite the hours, upon hours, that you work, you only get half of the things done in time, and your good grades are nothing more than a faded memory.
Your boyfriend is madly in love with you, and you can still remember, so clearly, when you loved him like there was no tomorrow, too. But not anymore, now you can barely tolerate him, and you know, just know, that you will break his heart. Because you really want to break up with him, and you will, but it's taking its sweet time, because no time is really right, and you just loathe the idea that you'll hurt him.
So, you pretend that everything's fine, just perfect, while your inside is screaming for you to break it off! but you just can't, not yet, not knowing you'll hurt him so badly. And, really, you're just hurt him more by putting it off, but you just can't help it, can you?
Your friends are mostly gone, these days. You don't have the time, or the energy, to call back, do something, or just go out for a walk, and slowly, they all forget you. You try to hang on, desperately cling to them with frantic, clawing fingers, but then you're studying the whole day, and get a so bad headache, you just forget that you were supposed to call them, or meet them that night, and they slink right through your bleeding grip.
The only thing you really, truly, have control over anymore, is how much, and what, you eat. It's the only thing you can do anything about, so you channel everything else, into that, into the food, and pretend that you have control, some sort of power, over your life.
And if you let that go, just eat again, you lose that precious, precious, power. That illusion of control. And you just can't do that, honey, can you?
Even if it slowly kills you.
-:-
You know it couldn't last, really, you did, but it still hurts, hurts so bad, when it all breaks down around you, don't it, honey?
When your shameful secret comes out in the light, after your flat mate found you, passed out and just bones left, really, in the shower.
But it's too late, it doesn't matter anymore, and you just fade.
Fade away into the nothing, and leave them all behind; all the people you broke and hurt so, so bad, by not staying. By never, even in riddles, or hidden cries for help, mention anything about your problems.
All the people who bought your lies.
All the people you loved.
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