I can still taste the hot acid
on my breath.
It b u r n s,
but I'm better.
I quickly brush my teeth,
harshly trying to erase the evidence.
I'm exhausted.
Sweat rolls down my cheek.
Please,





don't look at me like that.
I can't help it…
it's a habit now --
you were right and I was wrong.
I have no control over it.
The sight of food repulses me…
even at the thought of it
I get queasy.
Dark circles form under my eyes.
I guess sleeplessness is a side effect:
I haven't slept a night through
since I started becoming this… this monster.
I lied to you.
I do regret that.
But it's easier this way.
This way you don't have to worry about me.
I'm sure you suspect something --
you're not d


u



m



b.
But I can't bear the repercussions
if you knew everything:
knew about how I broke my promise
to stop my binge-and-purge cycles
(my eating disorder).
I'm truly sorry.
But once the body
it's trained to do something,
it's hard to






















stop.
Now it's more than
the thought of food that makes me sick:
you're unapproving
s t a r e,
the hurt in your voice…
Here I go again.
I hug the cool porcelain,
perspiration
forming a puddle underneath my cheek.
I'm soaring to a place
where I can't stand.
My veins catch fire
and quickly courses through me.
My body heaves forward,
purging again and again.
Finally, my stomach is empty
and my muscles relax.
I fall into a slumber,
if that's what you want to call it.
Dreamless, black;
dark and bleak.
Something is shaking me.
Pushing and pulling
as if trying to wake the dead.
I open my eyes and look up:
tears well up in your eyes.
I try to look away in shame,
but your hand collides
with my cheek.
I deserved it.
You're yelling, upset.
I'm sorry.
You get up and leave.
Good.
I don't want you to hurt.
I lie on the freeaxing granite floor, shivering.
I'm sorry.
Suddenly, there's warmth:
a blanket.
You wrap your arms are around me and whisper:
"We'll fight it together."
Tears burst from my eyes.
Thank you.