“I want to feel wanted”, she wrote.
I stared at her handwriting.
Dark eyes, curly eyelashes
Skinny - quite skinny, shirt too tight
For her chest
Freckles on her face,
But her smile - like the pink tulips
Planted by the gardeners overnight.
Yep, that’s her alright.
She must look like that.
Leaving the stall, I head to class.
But I can’t shake off her words.
They stay and I begin to wonder...
She’s cooking ginger tofu and rice
She walks over to her friend,
“Do you think I’m fat?”
Raising her tee to reveal
Her perfectly flat belly,
I sigh, “No, you’re perfect!”
“Do you want food?”
“No, I’m quite alright! Thanks!”
Bending over my book, I turn my back
To resume studying, too distracted.
The hall lights are turned off,
She tries to be quiet,
But I hear the door.
Open, and then softly close.
(The washroom is beside my room.)
I can hear everything -
She kneels on the ground,
And the ritual begins.
The halo of the toilet seat
Her sanctuary - awaits her offering.
Probing further and further
Into her mouth,
She feels the filth in her esophagus,
Dinner was delicious -
But now the colors are all wrong.
There’s plenty red pigment,
This won’t do.
The offering has been contaminated.
7 minutes pass before I hear the door
Open and then close again.
Her mascara is smudged.
Wasted attempt, today
Wasn’t perfect. Unacceptable.
So she’ll try again tomorrow.