core, seeds, stalk

You wanted to make room for him, you finally confess. Because he was the first boy to tell you you were beautiful. His smile was a light that lit you to the very core. That’s when you halved your apples and poured your coffee down the drain so you could use the saucer for dinner.

Because you were so afraid he’d leave if you haven’t got enough space for him. You wanted to keep him comfortable. Every time you looked into the mirror, your hipbones jut out a little more, much like Lady Liberty’s crown. And you never intended to hurt him, or anyone. 

So you pushed back farther into your mouse hole, where no one was small enough to reach you, consuming less and less to make more room for him. You realise this only sharpened your bones. You look into the mirror and the hollows of your cheeks are filled to the brim with a week’s supply of your mother’s tears. 

Big or small, light could fill any room. Remember that. So you swallow your apples whole. Core, seeds, stalk, and all.

—request

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