I am very good at lying.
I create elaborate stories. Believable excuses. Plausible explanations. You can question me. But I will have an answer. I will lie by omission. I will lie to your face. Small lies. Big lies. I don’t care. I will hide things. Manipulate. And cheat. There are no lenghts to which I will not go. No depths to which I will not sink.
You dared to stand in the way of the relentless force of my anorexia.
I tell you how much I want to get better. How I ate my snacks. Increased my meal plan.
But they are just lies.
Just one fragile string in a web of lies. Spinning ever deeper. Ever tighter. I cannot break out.
My lies isolate me. They hurt me. I feel more guilt than I can possibly describe.
My anorexia marches onwards. I am powerless. A guilty wreck.
Even the title of this post is a lie. I would make a terrible spy.
I hate lying. It’s lonely, this lie-filled existance.