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Updated: Jan 28, 2021

There are 48 hours in a day.

Sam opens her blue eyes. Panic greets her, heart starts hammering.

She showers in steaming water.

My body can handle it.

The Mirror. Twisted ugly glass.

One protein shake and out the door.

The gym fans swish in welcome. Cold air.

It will feel good later.

Her feet hit the tread in a beat. Push, push, breathe. Burning sweat hits her eyes.


Hunger is bad.

Why are there so many mirrors? They laugh at her.

School, work, study.

12 hours left.

The Beast appears, no-no sleep. Caffeine pills.

The phone screams.

I deserve a night out.



More reflections. Toilet.

6 hours.

The Beast rears his ugly head. Weight, so heavy, a blanket of steel. He tries to seduce her.

2. Day was filled. Gut stayed empty. Bliss.

Towel falls, she smashes the mirror.

Crash. Crystals explode on the tiles.


Sam stared at the fragments left behind. An ear, two ribs, half a foot.

The Beast won. Hot tears ran. Pulse beat in her ears.

Everything was so empty.


Up off the floor, the scattered shards whispered.

“It’s OK, Sam.”

The warm comforter held her.

Maybe 24 was enough.

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