Xinyue

“There’s this place deep inside myself that I’m trying to reach. A calm, quiet place where I don’t exist as a girl with a body that grows too big. A place where I can finally sleep. I’m trying to reach that place, every day I try, and I know there will be a point when I’ll be able to slip through. I know the point, I’ve almost been there, the point when I’m so hungry, I can’t feel it, the point of numbness, of suspension, the window of time when it’s okay to say yes, to let go, to fly. That’s the point I work toward, my own personal hunger point; a point when I feel everything and nothing at all. When all it takes is one more step and I’ll be safe.”
― Jillian Medoff, Hunger Point

“Beauty is precious, you see, and the more beautiful something is, the more precious it is; and the more precious something is, the more it hurts us that it will fade away; and the more we are hurt by beauty, the more we love the world; and the more we love it, the more we are saddened that it is like finely powdered salt that runs away through the fingers, or is puffed away by the wind, or is washed away by the rain.”
― Louis de Bernières

“My hands read a Braille map hewn from bone, starting with my hollow breasts threaded with blue-vein rivers thick with ice. I count my ribs like rosary beads, muttering incantations, fingers curling under the bony cage. They can almost touch what’s hiding inside. My skin slopes down over the empty belly, then around the inside sharp curve of my hip bones, bowls carved out of stone and painted with fading pink razor scars. I twist in the glass. My vertebrae are wet marbles piled one on top of the other. My winged shoulder blades look ready to sprout feathers. I pick up the knife. The tendons on the back of my hand tense, ropes holding down a tent while the wind blows. Thin scars etch the inside of my wrist, widening to the ribbons in the crook of my elbow where I cut too deep in ninth grade. I win, I won.   I’m lost.     The music from my bedroom shrieks so loud against the mirror it’s making my ears ring. I stare at the ghost-girl on the other side, her corset bones waiting to be laced even tighter so she can fold in on herself over and over until she disappears past zero.”
― Laurie Halse Anderson, Wintergirls

“They ask me what I think of food. I tell them I don’t know, but I do. I know everything about it. I feel like I’m at war. It’s all about the battle. I am always aware of what I am doing. I watch myself watch the plate, I watch my hand lift my fork. I watch the mouth that opens like a cunt, the fork that slides in like a dick. That fucks me every time I swallow. I watch every second. I savor it all. The object, however, is to not let them know that you know this. Because if they do, they will take it away. Not the food, of course, but the knowing. Your absolute certainty that you will win. That’s the real war, not the food, but the fuck and the desire of that fuck that I can control and I can deny. That I can destroy. You destroy the hunger, you destroy the desire, you destroy the need, you destroy the girl. The Me. And once I’m gone, what’s left to fuck?”
― Jillian Medoff, Hunger Point