Pervasive. This bitch is like Medusa. My thoughts are either polluted or enhanced, depending on your perspective. Self-serving demons—no matter where or when, how or with whom, your gentle whispers encourage the disciplined self-destruction necessary for your survival. What people fail to understand is that once life has been granted to your voice, the power is irrevocable. Alongside we shall walk until the end of my time. I presently operate under the understanding that where in my life’s spectrum of priorities you fall is still under my control. I can only imagine the laughter you get out of such fallacy on my behalf. You play me like a marionette. I often stop and wonder how my self-abusive behaviours translate in our relationship. Do I purge in your name or against it? When I shove my fist down my throat, knees to chest, head to the toilet, am I running towards or away from you? What meaning is there in that heart-stopping moment when people look soul deep into my eyes, asking me if I understand that because of you I am going to die sooner rather than later? Is that fancy or fear? Do I purge for hopes of the ultimate liberation from you in death, impatiently pressing my body towards the brink of no return? Or do I purge to feed into our mutual dependency? The number on the scale is meaningless to me now, perhaps because I know deep down it will never rise and my drive to see it fall will never be satiated. I’m not in denial; I know this to be true. I am broken beyond repair. My eyes locked long ago on my final waking moments encased in a physical shell whose deterioration finally reflects the deteriorated mind and spirit to whom it houses. Sticks and stones aren’t the only things capable of breaking a body.