I sat there on the cold tile counter. Facing my enemy-
two feet in front of me. My father unwrapped the cellophane,
placed it nicely upon a plate.
I felt like a mouse being lured into her cheese trap.
How delicious it looked-a drey French roll filled
with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, pickles, and jalapenos,
just the way I like it.
"Eat it all up!" I heard him say,
as he closed the back door,
went outside on the patio.
It was a warm August evening.
I stood up from the counter and gazed at the sandwich.
My body was aching for a bite.
If I eat it, then I will jog five more miles during my workout.
I began to negotiate with myself.
Whispers heard over jazz music from outback-
"I think she'll eat it?"
"Sophia's a smart girl."
"Can you see her, is she eating?"
Thoughts cluster my mind, I have no control.
DON'T EAT-DON'T EAT
FAT-FAT

The voices inside kept repeating.
I grabbed the sandwich and threw it into the garbage,
ran upstairs to hide in my room.
My waif-less body
curled in a ball upon my bed.
"Sophia!" The gentle voice of my mother called.
Slowly, my body made it's way down the steps.
"Why didn't you eat the sandwich?"
My father's voice thundered throughout the room.
And there it was in his hands-smashed bread and veggies.
A knot began to form in my stomach.
I knew that the secret I had hidden for so long
had finally been revealed.
I stood there staring into my father's flaming blue eyes,
listening to my mother crying tears of disapponitment.
"Take off that baggy sweatshirt and those baggy jeans
I want to see your legs, arms, and stomach."
At that momemt I hated him.
He stood over me waiting for me to do as I was told
like a lietenant waiting for his lowly private solider to obey.
I stood there shamefully
in a cotton white t-shirt and cotton white panties.

"What are you doing, your going to kill yourself,"
my father's voice echoed.
Tear began to flow from a place so deep inside.
A place where my soul was tired and yearning for rest.
A place where my dreams were hidden by blackness.
A place I never wish to return.