I Watch Myself Starve

I don’t even flinch anymore.

I cancel dinner plans and call it “self-care.”
I puke in the middle of work calls.
Then rinse my mouth, reapply lip gloss,
and go back to smiling like my stomach isn’t on fire.

It used to scare me.
Now it’s just routine.
Step in. Lock door. Lean. Breathe. Let go.
Flush. Rinse. Done.
Next?

Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror after,
mascara smeared, eyes glassy,
and I just think,
“There you are.”

Because that version?
The hollow one?
The sharp edges and false calm?
She’s the one I trust now.

---

People ask how I’m doing and I say,
“I’m good.”
Because I don’t want to explain that
I’m too tired to eat
and too wired to sleep
and too scared to stop
and too stubborn to get help
and too far in to admit that I’m drowning.

So instead, I say:
“I’m fine, just tired.”

Which is true.
I am tired.
Tired of pretending food is just food.
Tired of swallowing shame with every calorie.
Tired of wanting someone to notice,
but terrified that they will.

---

And the worst part?
I know exactly what’s happening.

I know the heart risks.
The organ failure.
The cognitive decline.
I know the names for this.
The diagnoses.
The acronyms.

I could give you a fucking TED Talk
on what I’m doing to myself.
And then go home and do it again.

Because knowing better?
Doesn’t save you.

---

I am not in control.
I’m just convincing everyone I am
while quietly destroying myself
in increments small enough
to stay believable.

That’s the trick.

You don’t disappear all at once.
You vanish by degrees.
Until no one remembers
what you used to look like
when you were still alive inside.

---

I’m not asking for help.
Not tonight.

I just want you to know
that if I don’t make it out of this
it wasn’t because I didn’t try.

It was because trying didn’t feel like enough.
And not trying
felt like peace.

-K