Thought this was an interesting perspective to share :)
credits to http://writingsforwinter.tumblr.com, her works are amazing

letter to an anorexic ex-boyfriend

I don’t even remember your name now, but I do remember how

when we had sex it felt like holding a toothpick in my arms,

or how every time I tried to hug you, all I put my hands around

was open air. You were the missing color of the rainbow

that always bled its sadness like watercolors into the toilet,

the Wednesday that struggled just to make it to Thursday

so it could trim off another calendar page

and make itself a little smaller. The first time

I saw you, the butterflies in my chest played dodge ball

with my heart; every moment I spent looking at you

my pulse stuttered so badly I’m still surprised

it didn’t need to attend a speech impediment class.

But when you started counting calories I stopped

cooking you dinner. I’m sorry for all the nights

I could have made you spaghetti and meatballs,

your favorite, when you said you were just tired instead.

I’m sorry for standing there and watching your shadow

starve itself down to a wisp of smoke,

or being too afraid to hold your hand because

I knew it would slip right through my fingers.

And I apologize in advance for still thinking about you

ten years from now every time I slice into a piece

of chocolate cake, because I still remember

how you wouldn’t even lick the icing from the candles

for fear of inhaling just a few more drops of fat.

Every twenty minutes during ordinary conversation

there’s a lull in which no one talks.

I think of you sometimes during those silences

because every step you took hardly made any noise;

even our golden lab couldn’t hear it, and you know dogs

have ultrasonic hearing. I wonder sometimes

if you still treat your body like a disposable camera,

something that can capture a few good moments

but is useless in the end. I hope you’ll forgive me

for only ever keeping track of your smiles

when all you wanted to keep track of

was your daily food intake.