The "You're Not Fat" Campaign

The next morning I go to breakfast and they serve me gloppy oatmeal and odd-smelling whole wheat french toast and warmish orange juice. I stare at the food on my tray and don't even bother opening my plasticware package.

There is a new boy, with feather hair dyed spotty black and stickthin arms Iamjealousjealousjealous. He is trying to pocket his plastic knife.

"Nice try," says the male nurse in the dark green scrubs, glaring at the new kid. Featherhairboy scowls and puts the knife back on his tray.

I clutch my hospital mug and drink ice water (fortunately there is an unlimited amount of that here or else I would die of hungerthirstemptiness) and ignore the stench of hospital food.

"They'll keep you here longer if you don't eat," blackhoodiegirl reminds me.

I can't talk. If I open my mouth all of the food will tumblespillpour past my teeth and down my throat and into my stomach and that is not allowed to happen.

Not now and not ever.

At last breakfast is over and the darkgreenscrubs nurse takes my tray and I walkstumblewalk back to the safety of my room.

I am still empty.