Emaciated

I’m sick, according to doctors, family, children, anyone. I am anorexic, I weigh eighty pounds at the height of five feet and seven inches. I am anxious, I will worry about anything possible and don’t forget that I’m also in the ninety ninth percentile when you score this so called illness. I am depressed, I have no motivation and I’m concerning to other fellow walking positivities. I am bipolar, I impulsively share myself with people without taking into consideration what this really is, and who I really am. I am insecure, at a new level, body dysmorphia level. I am socially anxious, I avoid bringing attention to myself but end up doing the most attention seeking thing there is for people to notice I’m a human being. I’m sick, and there’s no cure.

Notes