She stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking at her naked body. What did she see? The real her; the one with thoughts and fears and insecurities, the one who knows nothing, the one who pretends to know everything, the one with scars on body and on mind. She takes a breath, deep, long, hard. It rattles inside of her. She shakes as she steps carefully on the scale. What will it tell her? More lies? Will it bring her all that she longs for, all that she has worked for? She gazes down at the evil numbers. 102. two pounds over what she wanted. She screams as she picks up the scale and throws it against her mirror. She takes out her razor, her beautiful, precious razor and begins the process that lets her know she is still alive. She breaks the razors away from their casings, picks a spot (where will it be today? Oh how about the inner thigh. I wonder if I am going to bleed for long. Will it be as good at the last time?) She takes the razor and begins to make small pricks, here here and here. Blood droplets begin to form just as tears would down her face—if she would let them. Then she picks up speed cutting deeper and deeper, making it last. Suddenly a knock on the door! Oh shit fuck shit fuck shit! There is no way to hide this. The girls mother walks in the room. Oh god what have I done?