Loosening the Bolts.

She stood with stripes of sunlight painting her body from the cracks in the blinds. Her expression was that of anguish and I recognized it as her regular morning ritual. Her reflection in the mirror showed a beautiful, slender girl; young and vibrant.  Her expression showed that of an older woman, beaten down by life the way a tarp is beaten down in a heavy rain.

I watched her and felt every cell and atom in my body crying out to help her. But, I knew I couldn't. Today was like any other day.

“You’re beautiful,” I reassured.

I was answered with a forced smile that made my heart cold and still.

I've always felt as if I could see stars in her eyes, and could feel flowers bloom in her laugh. That was still the same. But surrounding every star was the empty blackness of sky, and underneath every flower was the rotting compost of earth.

Every day I hear the long, painful sigh she releases after getting dressed and examining herself in the mirror. The sound reminds me of someone letting gas out of a valve. The build-up being so pressurized that the slightest release moved mountains. And that’s just what her sighs did. I go in and give her the hug I give her every morning. I can feel how small she is against me, in contrast to my own body. With anyone else I would feel self-conscious, but I don’t with her. I know that in her mind I am beautiful, and she is disgusting. But, if she saw herself through my eyes, she would be the most conceited person in the universe.

I hear the familiar sound of her putting bread in the toaster. Just as soon as it pops up, I hear the crunch of her taking a bite, and the roar of the garbage disposal and she puts the rest down the sink. When she’s not feeding the sink, she’s pushing the plate away. And every time she does, I see the bolts in her head loosen just a slight bit more.

“Wanna try some?” her catchphrase. She pushes the plate to me. She’s always pushing, pushing, pushing. She pushes herself to rationalize. She pushes herself to be perfect. She pushes away the “ugly.” The only thing she hasn't pushed away is me, but I guess that’s a bit of an exaggeration.

She doesn't talk to me anymore. I mean, she still says “Good morning” and asks about my day. She talks. But she doesn’t tell me anything. But I guess at this point she doesn’t need to. She knows that I know what it means when her face is twisted up in pain as she gets ready. That I know what it means when she picks at the bread at the table when we go to restaurants but doesn’t glance at the menu.

We have fun. We have laughs. But no matter how natural her smile is, her tears are just as genuine.

She doesn’t look any different, she’s always been thin. But, somehow, her figure is different. She’s not thin because of how she’s built; she’s thin because of how she’s destroyed.

She’s a beautiful flower, and all flowers wilt eventually. But she’s wilting before she’s even had a chance to bloom. All I can do is love her, she says. And love her I do. But I hope and long for the day when she allows me to help her tighten the bolts back up.