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They whisper it in the corridor, in the lunch hall, on the way home. Their whispers are about me. Me. Stupid, fat me.
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Three bold letters stare at me. I write it again. And again. And again.
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It echoes through my head. Overweight. Fat. Disgusting. That's me.
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It has become my way of presenting myself:
Hi, I'm (insert name). I'm fat.
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And that's how I ended up in treatment. Only 14 kg underweight. To me that was too little. I needed to weigh less.
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It still echoes in my head. I still write it. Even if their whispers were voices in my head.
YOU ARE READING
A series of poems and random thoughts
PoetryIt's just what the title says. Nothing less, nothing more. + the occasional personal note
