Hunger

I rarely eat. I make huge meals and then always find some reason, at
the last minute, to throw them out. they were overcooked. undercooked.
too much salt. flavorless. too much oil. it doesn't matter what my
reason is, i always end up throwing them out.
when i'm with my friends, i make an effort to eat. for them, so they
don't worry. and sometimes, if i'm really lucky, i can forget all of
this. i can have the luxury of eating when i'm hungry without feeling
guilty. this rarely happens, though. usually i am too busy
concentrating on not eating to have time to forget.
i hate the way i feel after i eat. i feel so full, bloated. i have
grown used to the gnawing hunger my body is usually filled with. being
full is uncomfortable; being well-fed is such an alien sensation. after
eating, i feel nauseated. the food inside me churns; it pushes
incessantly against the walls of my stomach. i don't throw up, though.
keeping the food down is the last thing i can control; it's a form of
revenge on my body. even if i gave in to my hunger and ate something, i
can still control whether it stays in my body or not. after i eat, i
feel so sick. guilty. nauseated. fat.
and so i wake up every morning, and i look past the cereal, the eggs,
the milk, and decide there is nothing to eat. i spend the entire day
thinking of all the things i could eat, but once i go to the kitchen
and make them, they suddenly appear unappetising. if i finally give in
and eat something late at night, long after all the sane people are
tucked into bed, i sit on my bed afterwards, disgusted with myself. i
feel so full. i feel as if i am going to explode from the sheer burden
of having this food inside of me. and so i go to bed and skip breakfast
the next morning
(it's okay because i ate yesterday. i don't need to eat today.)
and part of me, in a deep dark twisted place, feels like all this would
be ok (or if not ok then at least worth it) if i was at least thin
because of it. but i'm not.