“What are you, anorexic?”

I mean, well... no.

No, I'm not anorexic. I want chicken nuggets. I eat, I swear. Have you seen me at home? You'd be surprised, I think. I eat like, three portion sizes for dinner because I didn't want lunch at school.

No, I'm not anorexic, I'm twelve. I have a fast metabolism.

No, I don't work out, I'm just skinny. I eat a lot of junk food but I don't gain weight. That's just how it is.

No, I'm not "too skinny," and I don't need to "put meat on my bones." It doesn't work. I've tried.

No, I'm not anorexic, I'm fifteen. I know I don't have curves, and I know I'm skinny, but I eat. Who's supposed to love a girl like me? No curves? More like no body. I guess I'm just a ghost. A waif.

When I look in the mirror, I see what you mean. I have bruises in the shape of my spine from too many sit ups. I can see my ribs when I breathe in. People cringe when they touch my shoulders and apparently my elbows are rather sharp. I'm sorry I'm too skinny.

"I wish I was as skinny as you."

You sound oddly wistful. Why would you want to be like me now that we're all grown up? No one has ever wanted to be like ugly, skinny me. But there you are, praising me like the second coming of Christ. For all the times I tolerated those insults, to hear them as compliments was almost... nice.

I guess I should watch my weight a little. Being skinny is all I've ever been known for, and my identity formed around that, in a way. I was the anomaly that could fascinate people at a party, spark comparisons and jokes that I was in the middle of, in a good way. What did a low, never-changing number on a scale mean compared to that? Little, like my weight.

I was looking at myself in the mirror, taking in the bones that are all anyone has ever been able to see of me. My boyfriend came and wrapped his arms around me, kissing the crown of my head and looking at me in the mirror too.

"You're so pretty." I'm sorry, don't you mean... anorexic?