Love the Way You Lie
Loving Tom Riddle was like loving a poison.
He filled your veins, he was in your every breath and all you could think about. Bit by bit you were slowly ripped apart, and bit by bit another part of you died until the only thing holding you to life was the knowledge of the pain that you could feel.
But he was a hallucination. An illusion of beauty. The only reason you didn't give up, though it was obvious to everyone around you that eventually your body would do so for you.
Eating became an obstruction. And obstruction to becoming worthy of his time.
The mirror became a reminder of just how little you could compare.
The nights became an endless torment of knowing that you could be laying by his side, in his arms, if only you had forgone that glass of orange juice. That bite of sandwich.
If only you were good enough.
You would die for him. Kill for him.
But little did you know you were doing both for him.
And he would never notice.
And nor would he care.
Why should he? Why should he care about someone as worthless and as pathetic as you? Why should he even deign to look at you? Look at that spot. That fat. That split end. Your clothes. You were hideous. Admit it. Say it. Everyone else does. He does.
Prove them wrong.
Come on, you can last a bit longer. Hungry? You won't need food when you're in his arms. His love would be enough to keep you alive. But you have to be perfect?
Can you do it?
Still hungry? I thought not.
Don't look in the mirror- you know what you'll see. The scales told you so this morning. Fat. Fat. Endless rolls of fat. Where are those hip bones? Those ribs? Collarbones? Thigh gap?
That's right. Down with your self-control. You pig. You're disgusting.
You'll never be good enough if you keep this up.
The pain you feel in your stomach is nothing compared to the pain you'll feel in your chest tonight as you muse on what could be. What you could be doing. Who you could be with. Whose love you could feel.
You can do this.
Scrape the bottom of your bank account buying only the best. The best for the best. Because Tom Riddle won't settle for anything less than perfect. Opposites don't attract. Not when you're ugly.
Ignore your friends. They don't know what's good for you.
Don't eat. Don't give into their demands.
You know why?
Because you can be perfect. If you only proved yourself.
That's it.
He'll love you eventually. You'll be together. It can still happen.
Ignore the doctors.
Death is preferable to a life alone.
He is what you live for. What you breathe for. What you starve for. Cut for. Cry for. Sacrifice for.
Feeling faint? Drink some water. Swallow some vitamins.
You can do this.
You can.
Oh but if only you knew.
Tom Riddle will never love you. Perfect things don't love the ugly, the fat, the weak.
And that's what you are.
WEAK.
UGLY.
FAT.
…Dead.
Tom Riddle killed you. The poison killed you.
Your love for the poison.
And as everyone says they're goodbyes at your gravestone, he's surrounded by all the people who were strong enough. He doesn't care.
Your death was for nothing.
And he will never be yours.