I wake up and my feet hit the carpet.
It’s thick and quiet, hiding the sound
as I drag the scale out from its hiding place.
I stand on the cold square,
waiting for the digital blink to tell me if I’m allowed to feel okay today.
Then I move to the long mirror.
I turn to the side, looking for the “morning skinny,”
that hollow version of me that only lasts an hour.
I hold my breath to keep it there,
memorizing the flat line of my stomach before the day ruins it.
By noon, I can feel myself changing.
I feel my belly growing, getting heavier against my clothes.
I look at the other girls in the hallway
how do they stay so small?
They look light, like they could float away,
while I feel like I’m taking up too much space.
At the lunch table, I put on the mask.
I laugh, I take bites, I act like food is just food.
I need them to think I’m confident.
I need them to believe I don’t care,
while underneath the table, I’m pinching my skin
and planning which meals I’ll skip to make up for this.
Late at night, I’m back on the carpet.
The room is dark and the mirror is a judge.
I turn to the side and everything is wrong.
The “morning skinny” is gone, replaced by a shape I hate.
I feel disgusted, exhausted by the comparison,
wishing I could just disappear into the shadows
until the sun comes back to give me my morning body back.
