Don't look at me

Today's a hot day, and because of that I decided to wear a simple, casual dress that looks decent enough yet won't kill me in the heat. I was feeling pretty okay about it too as I stepped out of the house.

Of course, whatever false confidence I had just shattered when I reached orchard road. The first thing I saw was a group of new paper new face girls, all walking around to promote themselves.

It wasn't about their faces, I couldn't really be bothered with that. It was the fact that they were all so THIN.

Their arms were like sticks, and their legs were so long and lean. One look at them and it was beyond obvious that they definitely had thigh gaps. Their shirts showed off their shoulder blades perfectly, too.

They were so fucking gorgeous I wanted to throw up the moment I saw them. Suddenly all I saw around me were thigh gaps and slim arms and flat stomachs. And with every step I took, trying to pretend that I was confident, I felt my fats wobbling in my thighs, my arms, my stomach.

And when someone so much as glanced at me, I felt a wave of fear wash over me, like they were staring at me because I was so fat and bloated and ugly and a major freak show for everyone around to stare and point at.

It got even worse when people really DID stare. I don't know why people stare at me. It's either I look really good, or I look really bad, and the chances of me looking really GOOD are pretty much slim to none.

I think people stare at me because I look so ugly and they can't stop staring. Because I'm so fat and whatever I wear looks bad. Because they compare me to themselves and secretly smirk because they know I'll never look as good as them.

Jack just texted, continuing a conversation that we had been having. I wanted to scream the moment I saw his text, even before reading any of what he said. 

Why would he text me? Why would he want to talk to me, even? There's no way he'd be genuinely interested in me, because who the fuck would like a fat girl? All I am is layer upon layer of fat.

It's all a lie, isn't it? There's no way he'd be talking to me because he liked me for real. I probably amuse him or something, he probably thinks it's fun to play around with a fat, obese girl.

I can't breathe.

I'm not hungry anymore.

In fact, I feel sick.

I want to throw up, and I can feel the bile rising up the back of my throat.

All I want to do is grab a knife and hack away at all the fat, all the meat and oil, until nothing is left but bone.

Don't look at me.

DON'T LOOK AT ME!

Please spare me your withering stares, your contemptuous looks. I know I'm ugly. 

Please. Just stop looking at me.