Ritual

“I want to feel wanted”, she wrote.
I stared at her handwriting.
Dark eyes, curly eyelashes
Skinny—quite skinny, shirt too tight
For her chest
Freckles on her face,
But her smile—like the pink tulips
In Spring
Planted by the gardeners overnight.
Yep, that’s her alright.
She must look like that.
Leaving the stall, I head to class.
But I can’t shake off her words.
They stay and I begin to wonder...
She’s cooking ginger tofu and rice
She walks over to her friend,
“Do you think I’m fat?”
Raising her tee to reveal
Her perfectly flat belly,
Too pretty!
I sigh, “No, you’re perfect!”
“Do you want food?”
“No, I’m quite alright! Thanks!”
Bending over my book, I turn my back
To resume studying, too distracted.
The hall lights are turned off,
She tries to be quiet,
But I hear the door.
Open, and then softly close.
(The washroom is beside my room.)
I can hear everything—
She kneels on the ground,
And the ritual begins.
The halo of the toilet seat
Her sanctuary—awaits her offering.
Probing further and further
Into her mouth,
She feels the filth in her esophagus,
Dinner was delicious—
But now the colors are all wrong.
There’s plenty red pigment,
This won’t do.
The offering has been contaminated.
7 minutes pass before I hear the door
Open and then close again.
Her mascara is smudged.
Wasted attempt, today
Wasn’t perfect. Unacceptable.
Like her.
So she’ll try again tomorrow.