Better Than Me

Worthless, her words slither though my ears. Waste of flesh, oozing blemish.
“Shut up.” I growl through clenched teeth.
Unwanted, putrid sack of,
“I said shut up!” I scream. She hates being interrupted, and frankly I don’t give a rat’s ass, but as her fire engine red fingers clench, and her beautiful, flawless face, curls into an unruly scowl, I begin to remember why I usually remain silent.
Fat. She hisses the word like it’s the deadliest and most infuriating insult in the world. Which, it is.
Do you see this? Her hand lunges at the sandwich I’m holding, and takes it.
This! she jeers, waving the sandwich in my face.
Well, this turns into this! Her other hand grabs my stomach and pinches at the small bit of skin and fat, moving her hand up and down, pulling at it.
Do you want this? Hmm? Do you? I look down and poke my sore stomach.
“No.”
Well then we need to get rid of it. She sneers, tossing the sandwich into the toilet. I reach for the handle to flush the forbidden food when she clears her throat.
You need to get rid of all of it. I blankly look at her, then I turn my attention to the toilet.
You want to be skinny don’t you? Well then get rid of it! She pushes me to the ground so that my face is hovering over the toilet. I can feel her starring at my back, waiting.
“Skinny,” I mumble, “I need to be skinny.” And with that, I lift my lifeless finger to my mouth, and let the rest of the sandwich poor into the toilet.

Outside of the bathroom I’m safe, almost. She still follows me, but her words aren’t as meaningful, her sneers not as strong. But she’s still there, she’s always there. Waiting for me to slip up, watching me fall into temptation, trying to convince me all I need is a glass of water and I’ll be fine. I can’t escape. In every magazine, in every television show, she’s there. Every time I peer into a mirror she comes to life. A better form of me. The person I’m trying so hard to become. She is me, but I will never be her.