There are maps through your bones and skin, to the way you’ve felt and the way you’ve been.

You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.

Who taught me to suck in my stomach, or my cheeks? Who told me to stand with my legs apart and my hips thrust back to create the illusion of a gap between my thighs? Who made me believe that the most beautiful part of me is my negative space?

A response to an online article called “5 Reasons to Date a Girl With an Eating Disorder” One. Her obsession over her body will improve her overall looks. She will never leave the house without makeup, will always take the time to cover the purple and blue ringing her eyes, to brush her greying hair that falls out when you touch it. Her hands are soft with lotion she uses to smooth the teeth marks on her knuckles Her nails are always well manicured so they don’t scratch her throat. Two. She costs less money. When you take her out to dinner with your friends, you will have to buy her nothing more than a salad. As she slices her lettuce leaves into thirds, your friends will stare, trying not to ask you what the fuck is wrong with her. Eventually, you’ll be so embarrassed that you won’t take her out to dinners anymore. Three. She’s fragile and vulnerable. Her skin will bruise when you hug her too tightly, her shoulder bones digging into your arms. On the days when she tells you, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing left of me,” you will have to hide the knives and box cutters, will find yourself wondering if she can hurt herself with a fork. You look at her and wonder if her bones are hollow like a baby bird’s. Did you know that mother birds throw up food into the mouths of their children To make sure they eat. Have you ever asked her who she is trying to feed by emptying herself? Four. She probably has money of her own. She will hate herself for how her disorder hurts you, but it’s too hard to talk about it, so her apologies are disguised as gifts. Picking up the bill: I’m sorry I threw up your mother’s Thanksgiving dinner. Basketball tickets: I’m sorry that most weekends I am too tired to get out of bed. A new watch: I’m sorry you have to spend your time watching me die. Five. She’s better in bed. When you lie next to her, you can trail your fingers down her spine, feel each vertebrae pushing out of her skin, all the way down her back in a perfect line, the last bridge she has left to burn. Flip her over. You can run your hands over the hills of her ribs, dip your fingertips into the deep valleys between each bone, those deserts of famished flesh. She will be great in bed, telling you to push harder, harder, push her so far into the mattress that she disappears completely. She will say your name over and over and over until she forgets her own. Date a girl with an eating disorder. Watch her transform from a girl, to a body, to a skeleton with skin, to a skeleton in a box. Remember how this was supposed to be easy, how dating a girl with an eating disorder wasn’t supposed to be like this. But this is what is really is. And you fucking asked for it.