Fixed

I am hungry. I take a bite from a sandwich. I record its 343 calories. She breathes, “Pathetic.” “You ought to be eating a salad.” “You can’t afford to eat this way.” I go to class. I am too short to see over people’s heads. I sit at the front. She whispers, “Fake.” “Only the driven sit at the front.” “Everything you are is a lie.” I walk down the street. My spine aches from hunching, so I straighten my back. I am confident. She growls, “Ridiculous.” “No one is looking at you, And nobody wants to.” I stay home from practice. I am exhausted. I have homework to catch up on. She snarls, “Lazy.” “You have no motivation.” “You obese cow.” I open my mouth to speak. I know something about the topic. I have something to add to the conversation. She spits, “Stupid.” “Your words are irrelevant.” “You don’t deserve to be heard.” I sit in church. My soul is healed from the week’s destruction. I reach for my Savior. She rasps, “Filthy.” “You are the dirt beneath His feet.” “You are too far gone to save.” I sob in the dark. My fingers hold a box-cutter blade. I have failed again. I choke, “Worthless.” “I am a failure and a disappointment.” “She was right.”