My Friend Ana Poem by Daniella Henson

Skinny is perfection.
Fat is a loss of control.

The scale has become the voice
I hear more clearly
than when I am called beautiful.

Lies. Lies. Lies.
They are all lies.
The voice inside me wants more and more,
but every number I reach
is not a reward—
it is a punishment.

The scale determines my worth.
A number determines my beauty.

Food is no longer food.
It is a battlefield,
army men sent to war,
promising their families they won't die.

Just like my mouth
promises another lie.

Consumed by insomnia,
with the voice of my friend Ana,
I love her,
I hate her.

She shines like a perfect apple,
polished in temptation.
But when I bite,
there are thorns inside,
a rose disguised as salvation,
beauty hiding danger.

How can I love something
that is rotting me from the inside?
How can I play with fire
while knowing it is burning me?

This isn't a life.

This is a prison.

And yet the voice still whispers
'Nothing taste as good as skinny feels