I used to take a lot of pride in looking the way I chose. Learning how to dress, how to style my hair, how to do makeup felt like a radical act of agency. Joyful and fun. Liberating. Finding myself. But the sallow, emaciated girl blinking at me in the changing room mirror is no one at all. Her dark hair hangs limply from a middle part, far too long. Her collarbones are sharper than knives. Her identity has been peeled off layer by layer.
Nooooooooo baby girl :'(
