I wither.
Whispers violate me,
Blur my vision,
As names that are not my own
Somehow still mean ‘me.’
Pig. B****. Fat.
The looks in their eyes
Strangle me,
Choke out every ounce esteem
And replace it with loathing,
With longing.

Two months later,
Twenty pounds lighter,
Hungry and aching
But no longer alone,
For those who insulted me
Now include me.
Now they love me.
Going out, kissing boys,
Skipping meals, sucking in.
Feeling happy, feigning happy.

It echoes.

Pig. B****. Grenade.
Grotesque, Gremlin, W****,
Hag, Horrid, Loser Monster Mind-numbingly-stupid,
Revolting Ratchet Wretched
Ugly, Ugly, Ugly.
Fat.

And with my fingers gripping porcelain,
and my weak knees bruised from the tile floors,
I think-
I scream-
That the ends justify the means,
And I crave that happy ending,
The ending where I feel beautiful,
Where his hands would brush against my stomach
And for once,
I would not flinch.

No happy ending exists.