Incognito

Imagine yourself;

dissected.

On each piece of your transparent body
 is written a label.
A description.
A secret.

What would they say?


Childhood sexual abuse survivor.

Broken hearted.

Former addict.

Former self harm junkie.

Bi-sexual.

Insecure.

Perfectionist.

Strange.

Lonely.

Terrified.

Hungry.

How many can you change?
 How many should be changed?
How many can you accept?


My eating disorder is a veil I wear to hide all of these labels. It’s the Indian throw over my tatty sofa. It’s the sunglasses over my bloodshot eyes. I hide from me. I hide from the world.

Some people grow a layer of fat to cushion themselves from the world. I enjoy making bones appear instead. Somewhat like a suit of armour.

I can be so free here because I’m incognito. Everything I write is true, except for my name.

So here I am. Labels exposed. I feel naked.