Voice That Lives in My Mirror

I was always told I was fat. By everyone. But mostly— by my mother. She loved thinness like it was salvation. Starved herself like it was discipline. Praised bones and feared softness. She told me what to eat, when to eat, how much I was allowed to have. She said, “You won’t look pretty in nice clothes if you keep getting fat.” When I was young, I didn’t care. I laughed, ran, ate freely. But now... it’s caught up to me. Her voice echoes in my choices. In the mirror. In the plate I push away. In the guilt that blooms after every bite. She doesn’t have to say it anymore. I’ve learned to say it for her.