fat, bloated, ugly.

This is you and me. This is you replacing an apple because it has sixty calories. This is you and me doing star jumps instead of showering. This is you. And me.

This is you coming home and finally saying fuck it. You, buttering slice after slice, sending them down whole, with fatty congealed milk. You with your hands on the belly of a woman many months pregnant. This is you, barely breathing from a stomach several times it’s normal size. You, bent over the toilet bowl both hands clawing at the calories invading your body. You on the floor, lying in your own vomit. You standing at kitchen, back for more. You for the tenth time, blood pouring from a throat ripped, hundred fold.

This is you in bed hands cradling a bowling ball, swollen, painful. You the next morning on the scales. Measure, weigh, re weigh. This is you trying all over again.

This is you four years later, standing on the scales. This is you watching your friends grow up. This is you, staying a little girl. You with a laxative in one hand and ipecac in the other. You with no means of survival but the thought of thin.

This is you at the end of your life, you with your body torn to shreds and your mind bleeding on the floor. This is you and me baby.