The porcelain circle is leering at me
Full of colorful shapes with faces
The shapes look like food
But food can't talk.
They tell me not to eat them
They tell me they are fattening 
They remind me of Zazu telling the hyenas not to eat him because he wouldn't 
taste good. 
And I yell back that it isn't real
That they can't be talking to me
Because food doesn't talk.
I don't even realize it's in my head.
I don't realize I've been starting at the 
plate for thirty minutes 
I haven't realized it's been days since I 
first sat down. 
That it's been months of having this 
conversation at every meal.
That I spent 7 long years fighting this war 
with the food that haunts me.
Because of course it's the food's fault.
Why would it be my fault? 
Why would my own brain betray me like 
"Because perfection"
"But perfection is unattainable" I tell 
myself every night before I go to 
sleep, and every morning 
when I am awoken 
from my sleep 
to exercise.
But no matter what I say,
It doesn't matter. 
Each battle is fought 
And most battles I lose.
I give up.
I walk away.
I would rather be dead than live in the hell 
That I have created for myself. 
I would rather die.
Than to admit I need help. 
Because I'm fine. 
I don't need help.
I need perfection. 
And I will be perfect.
As long as I don't eat dinner tonight.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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