she sits in your mind and twiddles her thumbs. dainty little
arms, and legs. skin and bones. nothing else.
a pretty, dark face. she is the epitome of perfection and she
sits there mocking you.
you scream and cry, you pull at your skin. you yell, you plead.
yet she sits there. a smirk on her face her tiny legs crossed and
whispers “fat.”
in everything you see, hear, do, she slithers her way into.
“we’re alone, go for a run”
“check the calories” “you have
time to throw that out” her silky little whispering
voice choruses in your ears.
She promises you only a few more days. You’re almost there,
you’re almost perfect.
You both celebrate together when the number gets smaller but it
never gets small enough.
Always so close but not quite enough.
But how can you fight what is in your very own mind?