Mum keeps telling me i smell of ketones, and asking if i'm taking my insulin. As the lies 'yes' and 'of course' spill out of my mouth through sore lips, i can feel the daggers stabbing and tearing at my strained heart. A heart weeping and bleeding with so many past and present wounds.

Each day is as wearing as the last. Must get up. Must try to smile and speak when i'm spoken to. Must get the right words out, in the right order, so that they make sence. Remember i'm okay and everything is fine.

I'm still binging and purging regularly, as usual, the totals mean nothing anymore. I suffer the pains willingly, the weak flutter of my body as i retch up my soul, my voice. The only way to escape, to relieve streaming emotions. A head full of numbers. Repeating the scale routine over and over, check once more, check again, just to make sure.

I changed into my pajamas before dinner tonight. I'm doing this regularly now. It's easier to ignore my shape buried underneath baggy clothes, only my arms are visible from this old, blue Diesel t-shirt.

Shouldn't the prozac be helping?

I need to scream, scream so high and sharp that it can't be heard. A scream that says i am still here, somewhere inside of all this.