the molecules in food

 {words words word, and a big crash that shook my house}

the weight of my existence was taught to me at a young age, I watched the southern women in my family cut corners, cookies, and cake. they all eagerly waiting for the kid's scraps. hunched over the stove promising themself one sniff won't ruin what they worked so hard for. It never affected me much until the family dynamic went from pizza night to competition and the obsessions were created, constantly comparing heights and body ratios and the despair/pitiful look from adult to child.  I was taught control by the southern men. weight always flexing from year to year,  sudden growths and sudden shrinks became a cycle I was taught to prepare for. the shame of eating a rice cake, or seaweed, or a slice of a strawberry. the constant prep talks about exercise were more religiously practiced than the bible they all seemed to follow.  every summer went from engrossing in food dissection videos to the hidden container of sugar cubes under my bookshelf. I walked fast, ate fast, and switched water with calorie-burning energy drinks. the summer of my junior year I guzzled fast food in the alley by my house, carefully lifting my neighbor's trashcans and hiding the remains of my secret splurge in hopes of escaping the criticism. inviting friends over became a challenge due to the fact over the sleepless nights they'd pick up harmful habits and the smug comments on my body size, as I begged them to not eat all the chips and the serving of small collected sugars. the worst part of it all was the degrading comments that came with their absents the comment of thighs and neck fat as my tween friends left the corridors of my haunted home. My friend's families jaws constantly dropping at the sight of me stuffing food down my throat at lightning speeds, and the shaking hand's god gifted to me while I sat crossed from dinner dates, the constant turning in my stomach, and the southern women's voice in my left ear telling me how a lady never finishes first and the ticking time bombing as I patiently waited to feed my dehydrated lips with water. I collected small spoons in order to slow down my impatient soul, slicing open Oreos and taking small spoonfuls of soup in an attempt to make the time feel rushed. Before the last time it became bad again, he told me for the first time how proud of me he was. yet now I sit in front of my mother's sorrowful eyes as she asks me how I could ever do something like that as if she wasn't the one who taught me. as if the bruises that star-speckled my legs had never been that way before, or all the summers of nose bleeds and fainting had just been some sort of hallucination. I guess there's a type of pride of being the shrinking child they noticed as they overlooked my sibling's similar destruction. I guess you could also say I won the competition.. lol "if you ain't first your last". 

katbird was not here.. she never was..