• The brain doesn’t see that she is beautifully and wonderfully made.
    The brain tells her all the time that she’s fat.
    Sometimes the brain says, “You’re fat. Do something about it.”
    Sometimes the brain says, “You deserve to be fat. You’re going to remain fat.”

    She feels as if she’s about to cry.
    Her brain tells her, “Screaming, crying, whining and banging yourself up isn’t the way.”
    “Just don’t eat,” her brain insists.
    “I want the beans,” she tells herself.
    Her stomach growls.

    “If you eat the beans, you’ll get fat,” her brain teases her.
    “I want the cookies. Just a little won’t hurt,” she tells her brain.
    “No. You’ll get fat. You know how your body works,” says her brain.
    She says, “God made me. He wouldn’t want me to do this to myself.”
    The brain says, “It doesn’t matter.”

    “My body will shut down and I will die,” she says.
    “So? What’s your point?”
    It’s like a war inside of her head.
    Every single thought is filled with pitch black.

    All she can see is darkness.
    Jealousy has made its way into her heart.
    “Why can’t I look like that,” she asks herself.
    “I want to look like the pictures in front of me,” she tells herself.

    “Don’t do it. Don’t make people worry about you.”
    “That doesn’t matter,” her brain tells her repeatedly.
    “Am I really just doing this for attention,” she questions herself.
    “Even if that is your motive, what of it?”
    She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head vigorously.

    A heated blush comes over her.
    She pictures a man in her head.
    The more she takes hold of the man,
    The more she sees.
    The more she sees,
    The more she feels herself tighten up all over.

    She can see her heated breath.
    She struggles not to hold her breath.
    “No! This isn’t right,” she scolds herself.
    “Of course, it isn’t right, but no one cares,” her other self says.

    The man touches her all over.
    He runs his fingers through her hair.
    “I love you,” he whispers into her ear.
    His heated breath stirs her heart.

    “I can’t do this,” she tells herself.
    “Why not? It doesn’t matter either way,” says her other part.
    “It isn’t like in the movies or on a television show,” she reasons.
    “Oh, but it can be. You can still get high.”

    It doesn’t make sense.
    She feels this way about herself.
    The fire inside stirs until it burns even more.
    “I can’t stop myself.”
    “Good. Go and do it.”
    “Will it be over if I do?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

    She reaches down,
    Her hand getting closer to where she ached to be released.
    “No, stop it!”
    “Yes. Continue.”
    “It’s wrong of me. I need to stop dreaming about him.”
    Her fingers touch the waistline of her plain white underwear.

    “He will notice you more if you appear sick,” her other self says.
    She reaches under the cotton fabric,
    Running her fingers along her aching spot.
    “That’s just insane,” she claims.
    “It’s romantic and will give you a high like no other.”
    “No, it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.”

    Her right index finger pokes at her wetness.
    Her legs tighten up with excitement.
    “I really shouldn’t be doing this.”
    “It doesn’t matter. You’re screwed either way.”
    She rubs her finger along her wet area,
    Allowing a gasp to explode from her dry lips.

    She hungers for someone.
    She mentally pictures someone loving her.
    “That’s the spirit.”
    “Why are you doing this to me?”
    She begins to make faster motions.
    An entire sleuth of emotions rush through her.
    It feels electric.

    She goes on and on,
    Struggling to stifle her screams of delight.
    “I’m definitely a sinner,” she told herself,
    Feeling on the brink of tears.
    “Yeah, but no one cares.”
    “Don’t you get it?! This is wrong!”
    “What? Romanticizing mental illness is okay with me.”

    Finished, she lays back and breathes.
    Guilt travels through her.
    “I’m an idiot.”
    “Yeah, but you’re still good to me,” her brain tells her.
    “I deserve to be hated.”
    “You deserve to be deprived.”

    Tears gather in her eyes,
    Overflowing onto her cheeks,
    Dripping from her chin onto her bright pink sweater.
    “Why do I give in?”
    “You’re weak.”