when i was 105, i did not realize how lucky i was.

when i was 115, i cried.

when i was 127, i wrote the word fat in faint calligraphy with a fine-tipped sharpie on my thighs.

when i was 134, i grit my teeth and ignored the ache beneath my ribs.

when i was 142, i wondered why my enamel had disappeared.

when i was 130, i spit up stomach acid every morning.

when i was 123, my head began to hurt.

when i was 117, i could no longer eat steaming or frozen foods.

when i was 110, i had dark bags under my eyes and a scarred pointer finger.

when i was 105, it wasn’t enough.

when i was 100, my mother sent me away.

when i was 119, i came back.

when i was 98, i was sent to the hospital.

when i was 96, i could count my ribs and found beauty in the space between my thighs.

when i was 92, i read this poem that went ‘i want to be as thin as the scars on my wrist’ and wondered how anyone could harm themselves that way.

when i was 91, i no longer went out of bed.

when i was 89.9, i decided to stop.

when i was 90, i began to feel better.