FAT.

I stare at it sitting in front of me, looking so deceptively innocent.

Innocent?

Pfffft. Please.

That's the last word I'd use to describe it.

I look at it for a while longer, engaged in an internal battle

(Who's fighting against who? Even I don't really know)

before deciding that staring at it isn't gonna do me any good.

I lean forward ever so slightly, hesitantly even, and pick it up.

I glare at it.

Turn it around to glare at the other side.

Sniff it even.

All in all, I can conclude that it is indeed a grilled chicken wing.

It's just a chicken wing.

God knows how many calories-

how many ounces, grams, bits and flakes and pieces of fat-

are in there.

I shudder, looking at it with distaste.

Why couldn't I just eat an apple or something?

Lamenting the fact that I will never be a vegetarian;

I can't go without eating meat.

But oh, how I hate it.

Every bite I take only serves to remind me that I'm getting fatter by the hour

minute

second.

I bite into it, and imagine bits of fat drifting off the meat, sticking to the walls of my stomach,

pushing out, expanding and getting bigger

until I am fat and bloated.

Until I am nothing but FAT.

My friends tell me that I am skinny,

a bamboo stick.

They say I'm skin and bones 

(and fats, but they forgot to mention that).

They're all wrong.

If I were a bamboo stick, I'd be

skinny and tall and graceful, not

fat and stumpy and completely uncoordinated.

I continue eating, hating myself as I eat.

Imagining nonexistent oil dripping down my many chins

and my arms wobbling

and my stomach bulging out.

Why can't I be like those other girls I see?

With their stick-thin arms

and slim figures

and toned thighs.

I diet.

I run.

I diet some more.

Nothing works.

I stop eating, staring at the bones on my plate with utter revulsion.

Without warning bile rises to the back of my throat

and I run to the bathroom

to throw up from eating my only meal of the day.