success story

I thought I was turning into a success story. But then I found myself locked in my bathroom, and the scene got a tad gory. Blood is back on the battlefield. It'd been months; I thought I had healed. I say I've been clean, but you wouldn't believe me if you saw the way I can't seem to eat. Food in my mouth feels like the first step of contracting a disease. My hands are cramping, and my nails are bitten down to the beds. "This isn't enough," has been playing on repeat inside my head. A cheeky mantra stuck on a loop. Whining for my attention, like an orphaned baby on a porch stoop. They always said I was mature for my age. It was said to my mother too, so much for making a change. Iron is threatening to stain the denim of my newly bought jeans. There are words on the labels of these prescription bottles, and I don't know what any of them mean. I want to be a success story. But having any story at all would be good enough for me.