crash&burn.

    "Sorry," I whisper as I take 1/2 of a pickle spear from a jar in the fridge.
   She studies me. She must see my stomach looks flatter. Or maybe she sees it the way I do, horribly fat and bloated. "Don't be sorry. You've got to eat."
    I realize that it must be hard. Years ago, I must've seemed like a doll. A little thing that screams and cries. It must be hard for her to see that her doll is a girl now, something that thinks and feels. It must be hard for her, having a nearly outgrown doll that thinks and feels and still cries.

   I'm so sorry for eating. I'm so sorry for existing.
   When she leaves, I eat more. Eight cookies, two peanutbutter sandwichs, 2 granola bars, 1/2 a packet of apple flavored oatmeal, and some rice. I throw up into ziplock baggies that I throw in my trash. Then I do 200 sit ups and 300 leg lifts on my bed. After that I pierce my arm with a needle. It digs around under my skin for a while, lazily. It wants to find veins to poke. It wants to rip veins and let me bleed out. Instead, it pokes back through somewhere else, a second opening. I pull upward, ripping the holes and the tunnel between them. My skin makes a noise, a noise like tearing fabric. I watch as the red water floods my white shores.