I burp and stale air flavored with the acid linings of my stomach
Creeps from my throat
A reminder: you didn’t eat today
Forty pounds now
Hatred grows, body shrinks
I thought this would make everything better
Now they comment
But I thought this was what they wanted.
I clutch without intention at the fat
There is fat everywhere.
I awake in the morning and my hands go to my hips, feel the mounds of fat in my lower back, the way my stomach rolls pile on each other. During the day I pinch and roll my underarms, yanking on the fleshy, gelatinous mass.
And it pours from my mouth, now. How much I disgust myself. How is it possible to be my bmi and weight but still be so grotesque? So much fat?
Joe puts his hands on my breasts and tells me he misses them. When they could actually fill out a bra.
Body shrinks, eyes bigger, clothes bigger, calorie deficit bigger, self-loathing bigger: all I wanted was small.
Hands shake, my fingers bleed around the nails where I tear away skin
Hours at the mirror with tweezers and a magnifying mirror: perfection is just dedication, right?
Now they ask what did I eat. Mom calling me unhealthy. I don’t know, now.
I’m not sure what I’ve done, now.
Today is my 25th year.
