Revision, revision, revision.... So instead I went and took some photos in the garden... Perhaps my obsession with flowers is slightly sad and kitsch given my name, but to me, there is no nothing more perfect or beautiful than flowers. I could philosophize pretentiously forever on how transiently beautiful they are, even in their decay but even more than that, I find the idea of perfection intoxicating. Everyone I've ever met or read about with an ED seems obsessed with perfection (me included) but has anyone ever attained it? Has anyone out there ever reached their goal weight and achieved happiness? Or are we trapped forever like this, pursuing an ever more elusive image of perfection? Will it always be like this: Starve, binge, purge, starve, binge, purge, in an inevitable cycle of destruction?

Five days until exams are over and I can start living again.

Three weeks before I go to Europe for two weeks with my best friends.

A month until I turn 18.

Three months to reach perfection.

And I can't wait.... lots and lots of uninihibited crazy sex with the User. Who cares if i hate myself for this, for every gram of fat that dissolves, surely that gram cancels all the self-loathing and disgust? All my posts have been very depressing recently, but really I am so, so happy. This euphoric emptiness combined with being in love... love the ultimate appetite suppressant. I used to dream about gorging on cake and painting my body in icing but now she's all I think about. I've always loved her and now she feels something and even if it's only curioristy, I'm in hopeful love and I've never felt anything close to hopeful love before.

Fucking A levels. I feel like my brain is disintegrating. The possession I treasure more than anything - my mind. Why do we sacrifice everything for that elusive dream of perfection? Fuck strangers until you're numb, drugs to escape and starve until you feel real again. I can live like that. But without my brain, my thoughts, the connections, the visions, the words, I can't exist. So for today, tomorrow and until the end of my exams I will nourish my brain. And then I will pursue that toxic dream until it destroys or perfects me.

On the dark, dew drenched lawn, The Beautiful One's fingernails scratch my skin. She laughs, "I'm not lesbian." Sure, just don't stop kissing me. Your fingers entwined in my hair, your hip bones grinding against mine, I run my hands across the ridges of your spine. This is perfection. You are perfect.

"I'm just drunk."

So am I.

"Promise me, you won't tell anyone?"

I love you.

Still?

Always.

I had sex with you because I wanted to feel closer. Closer to something, anything, nothing. Me. But for me, anorexia has trapped me here. And i feel so alone and numb and hollow and cold. Like nothing can touch me anymore. Originally, that was what I craved. As I lay there, cold and passive, watching the sky as you moved inside me, I wanted to come back. And you feel nothing for me, just like I feel close to nothing for you, and we have cold, clinical, souless sex and I want to evaporate. Someone asked me why I did it. They didn't get it. The self-harm principle. Destroying your body, slowly, pushing yourself to the point of unbearable pain, and enjoying it.

"Eat it." Their eyes watch me, covertly, waiting for me to react.

"Ah, thanks." Sweet, sticky, crumbling on my tongue.

Daisy just ate a cupcake. She can't be anorexic.

Fucking morons.

The User text: "Last night you found out what i've always been saying. I said I knew I would hurt you and I did. You're a really cool girl, even if you can be scary or weird..."

I felt nothing. I was too busy calculating the calories in my salad. If it was just sex, then why does he care? Why can't he really, really hurt me? Instead of insisting on this facade of kindness and mutual respect, when we both know this was some sick game in which we pretended to be living in the moment, when really we were coldly calculating how much to invest in this..

I can't stop eating. I've eaten a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, hummus, two quiches and a litre of milk - i just can't stop. I promised never to purge again. But maybe the searing pain, those convulsions of pain, maybe that will make me realise what I've done. How i should feel.