You Will Hate Me

You will hate me. That thought is a weight on my shoulders and a tight strap across my chest. I have rung and they are on their way. You slouch in the armchair — oblivious. If life force is palpable it has seeped and leaked out of your pores bit by bit. You have moved like a sloth for days while I've circled the phone not wanting to upset you. Trim. The fat. Off. You don't see what I see — in the mirror. You don't concede your gaunt cheeks, your augmented eyes, and your dull strands of fine hair. It's falling out, did you know? You fail to notice your dismal bones, your frail posture. Your thumb and index finger close easy around your arm. It won't stop you. Every. Breath. Hurts. They'll hook you up to be force-fed. I'm your mother. My love is steel. You will hate me.
Charlotte French