"You should eat more."

Disappointment is an old friend of mine, and it peeks through their words like the ribs through my skin. Their piercing stare meet my hollow gaze, immediately darting to glance at the rest of my sickening body.

My bony fingers fidget to a tune unknown, outlining emerald veins dancing to the beat, and I stutter apologies in almost the same rhythm.

I shouldn't hate my body.

But I can't help but tiptoe gently on that damned weighing machine and sigh of regret. I can't look at the Disney Princesses I once adored without looking at their beautiful slim body. I can't help but want to throw up every time I eat something, anything. I can't stand the realisation that no matter how much I starve, I'll never get that perfect look.
It'll never be enough.
Never.
So why the heck should I try?

I shouldn't hate my body.

My plump fingers fidget inside crinkled packets of sweet junk, and as I watch the television with a vacant stare. I've been eating. Eating, eating, eating, and I cannot stop.

Disappointment is an old friend of mine, and it peeks through their words like the fat through my belly. Their sharp words shoot at my stumbling mutterings, and they mock my sickening body.

"You should eat less."
.
.
.
Here we go again.
© Hyde