It starts as a scavenger hunt
Her eyes traverse Tupperware
and lounge on leftovers,
notice the piece of meatloaf no one seemed to want
and the black box of takeout Chinese.
For an hour,
maybe two,
she remains like that:
Gorging herself with her eyes
on the memories of food.
Alone in the kitchen, the girl sways,
cradling her stomach as it screams for attention.
She looks down at her hands
that quiver with desperation
It takes a moment before she notices
And another
to realize
that she doesn't care.
"this is fucked up," she says as she slams the fridge door closed.
Cold air slaps her in the face abruptly,
stinging as it cuts flesh
so she cradles her cheeks in her hands.
But then her hands become claws;
they rake her face, devour her skin
She screams.
Spins in a circle.
Walks one direction.
Another.
throws her back against the cold metal fridge.
falls.
It hurts but
Oh,
How she enjoys it.
For an hour,
maybe two,
she remains like that:
a broken ball
of skin and bones.
her shadow is frail,
her body obese;
she is underweight in confidence
overweight with anxiety.
criticism clings in her cells like cholesterol.
she is fabricated out of fat.
"this is fucked up," she cries to the empty room,
folding in on her heaving chest, pressing empty space into oblivion.
for she knows that in an hour,
maybe two,
she will stand up
and eat the memories of the past hours
with a smile.
