My breasts shame me. The eyes that are drawn to them, the way people stare. Trepidation sidles up beside me, an old companion, reminding me of precisely all the things that I despise about myself. It is a nasty monster that tells me that Boy was right--I have brought it all on myself. Perhaps if I hadn't developed so early. Perhaps if I hadn't relied so heavily on those terrible things on my chest.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
A million "perhaps"-es.
Hunger makes me tired. Dizzy.
My limbs are weak.
My legs are heavy.
I've eaten nothing.
Haven't stopped moving for ten hours. Running. Serving tables. Playing nice. Smiling.
It's not fair that smiling through pain--playing off your emotions so cleanly--doesn't burn more calories. Hell, it's shocking it's not an Olympic sport. I find the effort more exhausting than any run on a treadmill. The sheer determination and willpower to keep moving is sometimes unbearable.
All I keep telling myself is the same simple credo.
"This too shall pass."
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