It starts as a quiet voice,
a whisper threading through the chaosâ
"Less is more, less is better."
And I listen,
because silence feels safer
than the weight of what's left unsaid.
The numbers dance in my head,
small equations of control
that promise freedom,
but only deliver a cage.
I measure myself in fractions,
in bites left uneaten,
in mirrors that grow louder
with every passing day.
Hunger isn't just a feeling;
it's a companion.
It walks beside me,
clawing at my insides,
telling me this ache is proof
that I can still feel something
when everything else has gone numb.
I tell myself I'm fine,
that this is strength,
that shrinking is the only way to be seenâ
but deep down, I know.
This isn't power;
it's surrender,
a slow erasure of the self
I'm too afraid to confront.
Every meal is a battlefield,
every bite a war.
I want to heal,
to be whole again,
but the thought of letting go
feels heavier
than the emptiness I've learned to carry.
So I linger in the in-between,
torn between the desire to live
and the fear of what living might mean.