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i wish it felt like that. as sweet as chocolate. or sugar. or peach.
so sweet that it melts in your mouth. as pure as not eating anything. as clean as starving. like a scream nobody will ever hear.
i'm short. very short. 5'1 short at sixteen years old. i don't weigh much by societal standards, either.
"oh peach, you're so small, it's adorable,"
— a person once really important to me said.
but i'm not small enough. not cute enough. not light enough.
maybe — no, most definitely i want to hear this sentence once more. i wish she'd tell me something like,
"are you eating enough, peach? you're really small." or "you're a lot smaller than the last time i saw you, peach. so tiny."
small peach. tiny peach. just the pit.
the fruit was long rotten by now, after all.
i wish this peach was as sweet as the fruit. melt-in-your-mouth peach, soft skin and soft meat. don't even need to cut it open. delicious without spraying whipped cream on top.
sweet peach. soft peach. no whipped cream.
makes your teeth rot even without it.
but it doesn't feel like white stars and black skies when you stand up. scales aren't sweet. headaches aren't soft.
peaches are too sticky to be cute. they come out in chunks when you puke them back up. and the skin, it's so chewy, it's so gross and rough. on second thought, i wish i wasn't peach after all.
eating disorders aren't cute.
even though it's such a small word. so adorable, so cute, so tiny, especially with lowercase letters, it's so gross.
vomiting is even more gross. hiding it in tissues, picking up chunks of what once was food from inside the bathtub — being scared that i'll clog the drain — with knuckles oh so red, maybe even bleeding, too, on rougher days.
after so much time i began to love the way throwing up feels. the way it creeps up your throat. the way all the disgust disappears from your stomach. it's really something, even if it's gross. even if it isn't soft. or sweet. or a scream.
gross peach. pukes-a-lot peach. smells so bad.
and tastes even worse.
maybe that's why everyone's left, including that person, the really important one; especially her. that's why she won't tell me how cute i am. how much she loves how adorable i am.
because i smell so bad. like peach and vomit. and cigarette smoke. mostly vomit and cigarette smoke.
or, because i'm not small enough. not skinny enough. because i look too much like a human and not enough like a fairy. or a princess. or a prince.
please come back and tell me my ribs and collarbones are porcelain vases for tear-flowers. or glass bowls for the sweetest, softest fruit.
but all this porcelain and glass chased you away and scared you enough to leave forever and never tell me how small i am ever again.
i'm peach. scary peach. lost.
will die from complications of anorexia nervosa.