It's bad. Veryveryvery bad. I ate and ate and ateateate until it stopped being just eating and became gorging, shovelling (grabbing, ripping, swallowing and repeatrepeatrepeat) again. I didn't leave enough time to get it all out of the hole. It all sunk into me like I'm made of wet concrete.. cupcakes, fudge, burger patties, tictacs, orange juice that's freshly squeezed of course. I lost time. I lost everything and took muchmuchmuch too long. Now it's all stuck in me. I didn't leave enough time.

My belly is distended, stretched taught and I look like a baby has been living in me for eight months. My stomach is churningchurningchurning, rolling across the ocean, swerving and crying out for release. It burns and aches and my mind is playing tricks on me and telling me this is normal. But it isn't. There is no possible way this is normal. Normal girls don't suck things into their big fat black hole of a mouth and eatandeat until there's not enough to time purge it out. Normal little girls, real little girls would never think of doing that daily.. hourly even.

The orange juice is battling with my stomach acid. Two dragons using their firebreath. Two types of acid fighting with one another, fighting for control. The orange juice is winning, taking control of my stomach, sending a rush of pain through my body, sending shock waves up my throat, screaming to be let out. Roaring dragon want outoutout of it's cage. To be let outoutoutout of the black hole and away from everything I've swallowed.

But I have work now, because I didn't leave enough time because I was distracted and hungry. Sosososososo hungry. And now it's IN me. It's in me and it's not leaving any time soon.

This time it's the fucking cupcakes. Pink frosting to prevent Breast Cancer in Women or something like that. Cupcakes cure everything right?

They go in nine, eight and three quarters, eight and a half, eight, seven and three quarters, seven and a half, seven. Too-smallbites, trying to stop. I don't want this. DontdontdontDONTDONTDONT. You want to be lovely, right? Then the rainingface comes and I'm crying like a wolf to moon and I'm glad I'm home alone for once because now the cupcakes go sixfivefourthreetwoone. In,in,in,in,ininin,inin,ininininininin. They're gone and there's pecan pie and leftover lasagna and even a quarter chicken. The deadcold bird's body is a week or two old but Inininininininininin it goes. 1.25L Diet coke is guzzled like I'm dehydrated and lost in the Sahara or something. My stomach hurts. I use my hands as shovels. My fingers claw at the chicken, sinking. Peeling, scratching, I'm digging into the chicken and I can almost see the poor thing screaming. I'm hurting it by ripping it apart. It's soul is crying, but that's not why it's screaming. It's screaming STOP. SCREAMINGSCREAMING,STOP.

I stop. I'm shaking. I'm vibrating. I'm bouncing and I start raining. My body falls down like a mannequin, first my head, then my arms, my body curlscurlscurls into a ball and all I want is to cry. Sobsobsob,rage,leave.. DIE. But I cant and wont. I wont die fat and covered in chicken and pie and whateverthefuckelse. Bathroom. NOW. That's what I wantneedneed,neverwantagain. Cream walls, previously white and clean and happy and hospitalhospital-like. Shower on, music on. Taps running. Home alone, sure.. but justincase thoughts never leave your side.. Fingers down throat, not enough.

Hand down throat, mouth splits open, the corners are red and bleeding and my mouth tastes like copper. And I don't know if it's because of the split mouth or the regurgitated chicken or the stomachacid or whateverthehellitis. My brain is fuzzyfuzzyfuzzy.. Hand out, in, out, in. Repeatrepeat until your brain feels like it's going to explode again, and my eyes are raining thunderstorms. I'm vibrating, falling. Mannequinmannequinmannequin. And I'm not done, never will be done. Need to stop eating before I kill myself. But not yet, (fingers in,choke,cry) I'm not done.

I'm done. A firework exploded in my head and it's pressing all the blown up brains against my skull. I lay there for a moment. Just a moment to catch my breath, wipe my mouth. I have class soon and that means it's almost time to be a star in my own Broadway play of a life. I fucking hate Broadway..

And now I'm up again, lights on my face almostalmostalmost hot. Broadwayactress lights. I'm nearly not cold again. For a moment. Smiling. Not smiling. Notnotnot. I cant smile at my own reflection (fatgirlwhore). I'm not here, not here in this fucking bathroom on the second floor. Not awake. I'm dreaming and if I close my eyes I can smell unicorns and fairies and fucking happiness. Bad idea. I'm going to pass out if I close my eyes. Passpasspassing out means hospitals and breathing tubes showing everybody how not strong I am.

I'm fog. I'm mist. I'm lovely and light and almost a feather. My brain is lying. My brain is full of cake and hotdogs and too much onion and mustard. Gingerbread girls, skinnier than I'll ever be. I chewed them all up and purged them all out. Bloodbloodblood. My own blood was their friend where it isn't mine. I cut and my blood runs out of me as fastfastfastdrippingaway as it can. Even my own blood hates being part of me. My own blood clung to the fucking Gingerbread girls and wouldn't leave my thoughts. Bloodandgingerbread.

MirrorME tells me I'm fat. MirrorME shows me my thighs are Everest. My arms are two Great Walls. Tiny people travel across me, taking pictures to show their family and friends back home. ComelookatthefatfatFATbitch.

My shirt is gone and I look. My body is covered in redbloodred string and held together with thumbtacks like a fucking map. All of the strings are places I want to see. Asia, all of it. Africa, where the skinny children on all the posters live. New Zealand, Malaysia. China. China where I'll but my own little porcelainChinadoll. Red strings for places I've never been and never will. Replace the tripsvacations with little trips of my own. Trips where knives are harbored stewardesses and broken sharpener blades are First Class.

3 Quarter Pounders, 4 Large Fries, 2 Diet Cokes and a Vanilla Thickshake. The order is repeated over and over. The counter girl, 100lbs, yells it out. I'm the only one there and. I shovel it into my mouth, my blackhole. I shovel it into my blackhole of a mouth. Giant rip across my face. My mouth is open wide. Cryingcryingcrying. I'm not eating. I'm not breathing. I'm shovelling. Piling, shovingshovingshoving handfuls at a time. 3 Quarter Pounders, 4 Large Fries, 2 Diet Cokes and a Vanilla Thickshake. In it all goes.

I eat MacDonald's because I'm not as strong as when I pretended to be a tiny China doll. The type of doll that you smash open to see another doll inside. Peel it off layer by layer by layer by layer. You keep it up and convince the fucking therapist your fine.

But I'm not like that anymore. The locked me up and then kicked me out when they said I was a GOODWEIGHT,FINEWEIGHT now I'm not strong enough to restrictstopstopstop so I shove my fingers down my throat, my whole hand. Shove it so far down (downdowndowndownAlicefelldownthehole) my mouth splits open and blood pours. I am a vampire. I'm one of those fucking vampires all the little girls are jealous of these days, but the only part of me that sparkles is my spit and my raining eyes. Those fucking girls know nothing.

My eyes are raining and I'm sparkling.. I don't have the strength to stop eating even though I know I should (havetohavetohavetoSTOPSTOP,doyouLIKEdoingthis?) and I don't have the strength to keep my fingers away from my mouth. And when I'm done here (inthebathroom,onthefloor,cryingcryingcrying) and blood, blackblood stains my fingers.. I wont have the strength to stand.