“Do you want hip bones or pizza?”

I can feel the sting

of moisture in my eyes,

threatening to break loose.

“You’re really pretty.

If you lost a few pounds,

or twenty,

you could even be a model.”

The dam breaks and

the first tear escapes,

a warm feeling lingers

even after it slides

off my chin.

“Look at her,

she’s like a skinnier you!”

Another salty drop falls,

on my upper lip,

tasting as poisonous

as cherry-flavored cold medicine.

“God, have you seen

the VS models this season?

Don’t you wish

you looked like them?”

The tears become

a drizzle,

like that of a brief summer storm.

But these do not bring joy.

“120? That’s disgusting.”

I bury my face in my pillow,

but it does not prevent the

audible whimper I release

from reaching my ears.

“You’d have more friends

if you just tried.

Skinny is the new pretty.

The tears are now a storm,

and the deafening sobs

are claps of thunder,

only interrupted

by my lungs,

desperately seeking oxygen,

like I so desperately seek




I hug my blanket to my chest,

and squeeze my eyes shut.

The tears fade.

My breathing slows.

My chin stops shaking.

My nose stops running.

I have no tears left to shed.