full

Eating is a subjective matter; you either do or you don’t. You either eat for fun, or you eat to survive.

Food is something I am not uncommon with, but do not particularly care for.

My family jeers at me whenever I don’t accept their offerings of burgers, chips and pizza. Of when I don’t eat lentils with them. When I won’t bother with profiteroles as a dessert.

It’s too much. I can’t eat.

I can’t have it.

My family always says stuff to me— hurtful comments, like ‘you don’t eat enough,’ ‘you’re so bony!’ or ‘you’re going to die one day.’

I know it’s all true, but no matter how much I try, I can just never eat.

Like I said, I can’t.

In the early, morning hours of 1am, I creep down the stairs and open the fridge. It’s all harmless. I won’t take much.

Maybe some milk and some frosted flakes. Maybe one of those yogurts.

Again, I’m not going to take much.

It’s during those times — when I’m away from prying eyes and grabby hands — do I feel most comfortable.

In my skin.

The yogurt is tantalising but I know I can’t eat much.

I’m too full.