Two years ago. Twelve years old Lonely as hell Being the outcast. I fell into a disorder that Wasn’t a disorder, maybe You’d call it ‘subclinical’ or A stepping stone to a real Illness. The breaking, rusting words Of 'I have an eating disorder' Were one kilogram away. I told two teachers about what I was going through. One of the teachers suggested, Helpfully, that I just ‘stop having An eating disorder’. The other teacher who was my best friend too Shared the same mind as myself and he Praised me for reading parenting books In the school library. But even he said ‘Let’s face it, you’re Hardly skin and bone.’ He told me exactly What I knew, I wasn’t thin so I wasn’t sick. And the thing about thin is That I thought it was a synonym for Good, which meant I wasn’t good Enough for a mental illness. My family was scared, Jokes and laughter turned into Barging in on me in the shower, My mother cited ‘parental concern’ But parents weren’t like that for me Before. I was burning this body with stomach acid. This was their child ruining themselves, despite Everything they did I still wished I could burn A more painful orange to mirror how I felt. And my parents had to be strong because You can't extinguish a flame with a drop of water Or remove rust with a delicate touch of your fingertips. Despite not being covered in rust My corrosion had begun but those Teachers saw my first blood red dots And just said I was normal. One time, I got busted from My old teacher, the First I ever had. She heard me vomiting and I had to Tell her that it wasn’t as innocent or Familiar as a stomach bug. Because they have to send you home If you’re sick enough to be vomiting, But I wasn’t sick enough. After all, I was still normal.