I feel fat. Down to my core It starts in my mouth, my breath souring even as I type, from the last 140 calorie granola bar. It travels down my neck to the divot, now gone, that I used to sense next to my collarbone. Then the sensation reaches my lungs. I cant breath. I feel full, too full for oxygen. Next comes the grotesque obtrusion of my stomach. It protrudes from the hollow under my rib cage. I cannot look away from the pad of fat circling my belly button.
And fat. Don’t even start me on fat
The skin on my legs ever thins under the ever-growing monstrosity.
As I type, my cells multiply. Amino acids form into clumps, which I shall retain on my breasts, stomach, thighs, and ass.
I feel fat.
There is no question.
No cure for me.
Recovering anorexic? I scoff. No, not me. I merely retain meager will power.. I am unable to stop the feeding.
No. I shall end it now. Make the cut. End this dysfunctional affair with food.
Maybe then. Then, I can be free.