And that is why I can never escape the panic. Sometimes I feel like some sort of sexual predator, eyeing every woman up and down to compare myself to her body. I feel the way my ass expands, like ship’s sail, to the limits of my desk chair. My shadow has the uneven gate of a pregnant woman. A thousand sensory images all at once, hammering at the same idea. The panic of an eating disorder is ubiquitous and seems, at least right now, inescapable.
It feels good to write.
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