she asks what's for dinner, already planning what she will eat. it's not that she's hungry, but to the point where she is thinking of what she can eat and not feel guilty. it's not that she isn't hungry, but she guilts herself after eating. she could of eaten less, something healthier, nothing at all. she counts the pounds alongside the tears, curses her body for being seventy percent water, curses her curves, curses the stretch marks, that discolouration on her skin. she pinches her cheeks, pulls at her shirt. the fact that her t-shirt hangs off of her is for her own comfort. she's tried being comfortable with her body, but at all instances she is hyper aware of what she's wearing, where it's positioned, what she's doing, how she's sitting. her stomach hurts at the end of the day from holding it all in, from keeping herself from expanding, filling the space, shrinking back from the eye, and crossing her fingers, hoping she's not surpassing two-thirteen. people tell her she's the right size for her body type, but it isn't good enough. she's tall, but she's still pudgy. she hated her prom pictures. she hated her yearbook photo, she's afraid for her senior photos she's trying to lose weight for. but weight doesn't just fall like an apple off a tree, it takes time and time is what she doesn't have, and the depression from the world and over herself makes her too tired to do anything more, and it's a vicious cycle she keeps swirling through.

|m.s.