When I'm with you.

I don't accept you for who you are.

I throw you in the trash
when it's near midnight,
trying to be as quiet and small as possible
so my neighbors don't hear.

I try to hide the evidence -
burn it even - pour soap over
the remains -anything to make it

inedible,

unlovable,

acceptable scraps.

I fear no one would believe me
(but why would I care?)
when I say I've been fighting you
for almost a decade now.

More than images,
more than liquid calories,
more than body image,
more than funhouse mirrors,
more than intrusive thoughts,

more than anything anyone
could possibly imagine.

And I tuck myself into bed at night,
wondering if you'll sneak in,

if I'll ever rid myself of your shadow.