This disease is not feeling thin, or attractive. At least not all of the time.
There are times - (the highs) -
That see my collarbones as mountain ridges between valleys,
My thighs as slender sprawling waterfalls,
My face a pale pointed moon with craters around my eyes.
There are times, however - (the rest)-
that see my bruised stomach wheeze as it strains outward against the skin encasing it; a bulbous tumour hidden beneath black fleeces.
A face now disfigured by bloated, swollen cheeks, and thighs that are no longer waterfalls,
but huge crashing clouds cracking thunder with every step.
A throat slicked with battery acid stench, a cave mouth scoured by sandpaper.
'Hello' reduced to a wince. Better unsaid.

Tears forced out of rolling eyes.
Saliva streams down forearms.
Torn children.

This disease will make your skin burn and your parents cry.
I can only rinse myself out so many times until I'm just dirtier than before.