Three hundred and sixty-two

calories in the cobb salad she ate this morning.

Blinking down at the brown coffee mug in front of her

containing Costa Rican roast

she’s already regretting the vinegar dressing she had on the side.

Aggressively she peals away the paint at the handle of the coffee mug.

Slowly sawing down her thumb nail until it bleeds.

Wondering how many calories her coffee will try and kill her with today.

Black.

No sugar.

A panic begins in the bottom of her dry throat

as the warm steam of the coffee 

invades her pale skin

piling on layer of fat

after layer of fat.

So she chooses against it

and tosses the poison down the sink.

She’ll take the violent

pounding in her membrane

as a victory anthem.

 

One hundred and twenty

calories in five saltine crackers.

She’ll choose to eat two.

A costly dinner but since she’s

passed on the coffee 

she can pamper herself tonight.

Sitting in front of her computer

indulging in ‘thinspiration’

She resists the urge to smear

a bit of peanut butter on them.

She considerers the fact that

the crackers will make her mouth

dry so she’ll be able to drown the

annoying stomach punches

that  will remain with water

as her excuse.

An artificial sense of satisfaction

but since the only energy

that still clings to her sinews

will get her to bed, a saltine

and Evian dinner will be just enough.

 

Ninety-

two

pounds.

The scale mocks her with this

dream breaking number.

Tears run like acid down her

cement color

sunken cheeks

hating herself for the feast

earlier today.

In a panic she rushes the index and middle finger

saviors down her tight throat.

Her stomach cramps.

Dry heave

after dry heave.

 

Nothing.

 

It takes one hundred and twenty minutes for food to pass to the small intestine.

Banging her skull against the

dentist blue bathroom tile she murmurs:

three hundred

three hundred

three hundred and eighty six

sixty less than the day before

three hundred and eighty 

three hundred and eighty six

three hundred and eighty six

sixty less than the day before

 

She admits defeat

grabbing her twig thighs

like rotten Thanksgiving hams;

a disgusting sight to be seen.

No sight anyone longs to see.

 

 

 

A human can withstand twenty-one days without food.

Tomorrow,

Tomorrow can be day one.

 

 

Author's Note

Notes for revision?

Reviews

[J Johnson III]

Really good and horrific at the same time. Great piece of writing. Her pain towards what she thinks is defeat is crazy. If not fiction hopefully she realizes the pain being caused.

[Luz Marie]

Thank you, i'm glad you enjoyed it!