Vines

A sponge of inherited behaviors sat quietly on the frigid bathroom floor, staring into the dark hole of water where her meals would be quickly spat up to avoid digestion. She sat there, building the courage to cram her weak fingers down her throat so that she could force out her small salad dinner. She knew it would disappoint her family if they knew what she was doing. She turned on the fan to drown out the noise.
For years she sat on the bathroom floor and observed as her mother pinched at her stomach and measured her waist with her fingers as she got ready for work. Her father would sit her down, poke and pinch her with his words. The words “fat” and “chubby” wrapped around her body like thorny vines and pierced her skin. Her father’s words and her mother’s self-hatred would blossom her brain into a warzone. The spiked vines would wrap around her waist and squeeze tightly. So every night after dinner, she would try her hardest to loosen the evil, trailing plants from her body. Shoving her fingers down her throat, she cried tears of joy as the vines untightened.