127

“127,” the scale flashes. How did I let myself go this much? My fingers grip my waist, pressing into my flesh as I imagine slicing it off with a knife, peeling away the fat until I’m left with something acceptable, something I can stand to see.

The disgust burns brighter with each glance and I pinch the skin until it turns a deep red. I creep to the bathroom and run the water, bowing to the porcelain bowl, fingers forcing the food back up, mom’s grilled cheese, a swirling smear of browns and yellow.

I step onto the freezing scale every night, its dim white numbers almost taunting me. “127,” “125,” “123,”

Days blur together, my body weak, my hair thinning, my skin growing pale. The dizziness, feeling like fuel.

Then one night, as I stare at the glowing numbers, something shifts. My body shakes, and the world spins. It’s not the victory I imagined. It’s fear. I sink to the floor, clutching my knees, glaring into the mirror, fixating on the flesh that still feels like failure.