You are beautiful. You truly are. I don’t tell you that enough; in fact, I spend my life telling you the opposite. You are like the most incredibly complicated computer, far more advanced than my own conscious mind could even really care to understand, contained in the most demanded of luxury cars, one with engineering far more delicate than could be created with my own, cumbersome, limbs. All that technological finesse, mine for the use, ought to be truly appreciated and well maintained, my most prized possession. You ought to be the ideal to which all else on my life is compared, the platonic beauty, not something to be viewed as lacking. You perform the most graceful of acts, organs so well oiled and synced, whilst simultaneously tripping over your feet; completing always the other great paradox of constant renewal, whilst maintaining everything that I may or may not be- brand new, always changing, 22 years spent. You’re not perfect; you will never dance with any rhythm, nor will you sing in tune, nor manage to go a day with tripping up. But you will dance, sing and skip along, nonetheless, and I (maybe you are the shell and, I don’t know, my soul, is the real essence of what I am- I don’t know what I am, in any sense) thank you most entirely for that.
You've shown me some divine and astounding things, disasters and horrors, love and life. Bodies right at the start of their lives and those coming to the end. I wish for you that you could have had only the best to have seen and relayed to me, but that wouldn't be life and sight is a gift I appreciate, especially since mine seems to be failing. I wish you'd only see what is really there, not the horrors that have been there before, the endless flashbacks that rattle through my hollow bones. I wish between you and my brain, you could let me see myself outside of Anorexia's distortions. I wish, I wish, I wish. I wish I'd never forget how blessed I am by your bespectacled, blue hued, ever-seeing and searching goodness.
My hands should never have once been jammed into your cavern, never mind with the regularity of which they are. The ferocity of the abuse I commit to my body often begins with you- to enter something into my mouth, or not. To vomit, or not. To... well, you know the score, Mouth. It's not you, it's me... sorry, I couldn't resist, but it's true. I'm not sure what my issue is with you, there's just something scary about an entrance, I suppose, when you've feared for most of your life what is around the corner, who or what lies beyond a doorway. I'm sorry. Thank you for being the vehicle through which I primarily express myself, and for allowing yourself to be the exit of so many of my vocalised demons. That's not to say our relationship is purely serious; thank you to for allowing all the laughs and the mix ups and for the ability to screech and giggle. Thank you for allowing me the taste of love.
I could never express my gratitude to you in a way that really... I'm even struggling to express how I can't express. Just... thank-you. Also, you're very petite and cute.
PS. Sorry for all the scars and callouses from my teeth and for making you do not very sanitary things.
I think it's you who have had it the worst. Whenever something bad happens, whether it be based in external or internal forces, it's you who has suffered the ramifications. Be it everlasting emptiness, or a fullness as far from satisfaction as a goat is from a slug, or a waterfall of ill-advised and over-dosed medications, it's you who have had paid the price. Retching long into the night, screams seeming to come from your core rather than my throat, always so much blood... it's you who have faced the physical attack nearest to the war fought by my mind. You'd think I'd be more protective of you, when I know myself how draining always being on the front-line is. I'm sorry, and thank-you for not having given up on me.
I'm sorry I can't look at you guys without crying. All you do is try to keep me as upright as possible, as well as putting up with always being covered in bruises from all my throwing this body about, attempting feats not possible in this particular, beautiful, body. I wish I could offer you some sort of promise or placation, but really, I just... I suppose I can't handle you, and I'm sorry. I desperately want to love you, but right now, all I can do is promise to try all I can not to hurt you anymore.
All the love I can give you right now, and a promise that I'll work all I can to being able to give you so much more in the future,
Becs <3 o:p="">3>