According to science, my body is made of about 30 trillion cells, 1 million of which die every second but I swear it feels like more. It’s gotten to the point where you could make a rhythm from my ribcage and use my hip bones for bass even though the music would be made from something broken maybe then I could see beauty if my body were on repeat, I really am trying. But some days are so dark if they could be ground into powder and poured into French press I would have the world’s strongest espresso. Some days I wake up and forget who is older; me or my eating disorder because I can’t remember life without it, some days I don’t get up at all because the longer I sleep the less I think about food, some days are impossible. But some days are good. Where for a few hours I feel like I’m enough, I feel whole even though so much of me is gone. I feel like I can breathe. And I know it is fleeting and will be gone by morning but for now I have a feeling like thick Irish cream which I pour over the bad days. I make a latte, sip it into the stomach that has become a stranger to something so warm and rich and I am filled with a feeling like I’ve got a reason to keep fighting.