The Thirty Minute Clock
Thirty Minutes
My body grows weaker
but the ritual stays the same.
I fill my stomach
as if hunger is a lie
I can silence
with one more bite.
Then the clock begins.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes before panic
starts knocking at my ribs,
before the voice returns.
You have to fix this.
So I walk the stairs
with guilt already waiting
in my stomach.
Each step
heavier than the last
because I already know
what promise I am about to break again.
The bathroom door clicks shut.
A small room
where the mirror watches everything.
I reach for the black ponytail
the same kind my mother once used
when I was still her little princess,
before disappointment
became something I carried alone.
Hair pulled back.
Head bent forward.
Knuckles pressed red
against porcelain.
And then the sound.
a gag
that feels like regret
trying to escape my body.
Five minutes.
Five minutes
and the meal I forced down
never really belonged to me.
And for a moment
there is relief.
The strange, quiet victory
of an empty stomach.
But relief
never lasts long.
Because the mirror is still there.
I look up
with wet eyes
and lift my shirt again.
the hundredth time today.
Turning sideways.
Studying every angle
like a stranger
searching for proof.
Proof that the lies will stop.
Proof that one day
the reflection will finally look real.
But standing there
in the cold bathroom light
I ask myself
the question I never answer.
Will I ever see the real me
or is this
the only version
I have left?
