All I wanted was to be perfect.

My stomach cries out to me. Feed me, she begs. Satisfy me, she whimpers. The anguish in her plea is heard throughout the entirety of my being, but I still refuse. Instead, I water her. I sprinkle her with showers of the zero-calorie beverage and drown her with my own sorrows. She does not deserve this. She is paying for my own desires, my own neuroticism.  I can feel her pulsate inside of me, scraping every last bit of the meal I had two days ago into my intestines, hoping to latch onto one single nutrient. Her efforts only exert her to a higher degree, leaving her with an even stronger pang of hunger. She is dying, and I am letting her.

I whisper words of false encouragement to her. “Please, just a few more days. Just a few more pounds. Just a little while longer.” Though I know she knows better. She knows her suffering will continue until my ambitions are satisfied instead of merely within reach. Until I fill the endless abyss that is inside of me. Until I can step onto a scale and feel validated once again.

My fingers shake relentlessly as I lay a gentle hand upon her head. She is cold. She is frail. She is weak. Her cries are now choked and filled with pain. A single tear rolls down her face. Why have you done this to me? she whispers weakly, her eyes sunken into her long and pale face. Why? she murmurs over and over again. Her incessant cries of desperation grow smaller with each passing second until there is nothingness. There is no more fight within her. She turned herself over to this wretched ambition, and became its slave.