Exposed in front of a full-length mirror,
fixated on my concave collarbones
and protruding hips. Spending every daylight hour
beating down my reflection, reciting
food is not worth being fat for,
run,
run,
faster,
further.
Fires from my thighs
ripping through the winding
Cayuga hills. Punishing
my legs for sparking
together when I moved. Training
to be repulsed by the sight
of soft skin folds,
crusty bread or steaming steak.
Cutting glossy pages of magazines into thinspiration,
alongside charcoal sketches of my dollhouse daydreams.
