My index and middle fingers both penetrate my mouth, slithering to the back of my throat. My fingers, an attachment of me, are attacking me. They skim against my tonsils and the lining of my throat. Frustration sweeps the entire length of my body, building up in my chest when I see no result. This needs to happen. I have done this many times before. The relief I feel afterwards is phenomenal.
After numerous attempts of pounding my fingers against my fleshy throat lining, I regurgitate the food that I just digested. Food is not my friend, yet I continue to propel chocolate after chocolate into myself. My body is already at maximum capacity, I cannot accumulate any more weight. The pounds of chocolate and sweets are already blatantly obvious on my thighs, my stomach, my face. I am nauseating, repellent.
As the chunks of food escape the prison that is my body, my emotional pain alleviates slightly. I have saved myself from becoming a pound heavier. I need to prevent myself from becoming increasingly corpulent, and this is the only way that I am aware of.
Kneeling in front of the toilet soothes me. I am pleasing the thoughts. I swell with pride instead of pounds whenever my two fingers are buried inside my mouth, whenever the vomit protrudes. I am one step closer to being a better me.