mirror inventory

Content warning: This poem contains themes of disordered eating, past suicidal ideation, body shame, and mental health distress.

tiny

you gushed about how tiny she is,
like she could slip through prison bars sideways.
your voice weighed exactly sixteen ounces —
so I learned to celebrate subtraction.

I stopped drinking soda,
then lunch,
then the sound of my own stomach.
weight peeled off like paint in an
abandoned room;
every flake felt like proof I could
disappear on command.

in Virginia,
the tap spat ants with the water;
thirteen-hour shifts meant
I could rehearse hunger
until the growl sounded fluent.
paychecks went to mail-order meds
that dulled appetite better than prayer.
easier than groceries, anyway.

north again, I promised myself:
new zip code, new routine.
but the cafeteria smells like judgement,
and my bed feels safer than breakfast.
some days the single yogurt expires
before I remember to be alive.
recently, my vision pixelated black
at the nurse’s station;
I logged the blackout as progress.

hair

you said red washes me out,
like rust left out in the rain.
so I sheared it to the scalp,
watched copper spiral into the drain
like metallic vomit.
now my selfies arrive pre-faded,
color-corrected by shame.

grades

midnight email: academic probation
meanwhile, you bragged the stable girl
was coding JavaScript in cuffs.
I shredded my syllabus,
chewed a strip just to feel full.
your crowbar comparison.
now FAFSA emails rot unread;
I rehearse excuses about travel contracts
so no one sees that I’m still scared of another F.
that I cannot risk another grade
weaponizing in your mouth.

silence

you called me unstable often enough
that I keep my storms off-grid.
you say I always had a hand to hold.
truth: many paydays in ‘25, I sized up a trigger I
could afford,
imagined the clean geometry of an exit wound.
thank god I dialed my shrink instead,
with hands shaking like teacups.
still here, still fighting,
but sometimes, it feels like
my voice crawled into
airplane mode
and hasn’t completely come back.

joy

you study my face —
I study yours and wonder
if you see a “fat girl” when you look at me.
I brag that I quit cookie deliveries,
hold up my loose waistband
like a medal made of shrinkage,
friends screenshot my weight-loss
posts,
flag them, DM: are you okay?
I leave them on read, scroll past,
concern is a mirror I don’t survive well.