I tried finding salvation in the grocery store aisle labeled “nutritional supplements.” Whispering fervent prayers to rows of multicolored bottles, each promising to set me free from my lesser-than body, a cage keeping me from a blissful nirvana.
Counted out dollars saved from allowances past, hoping my parents wouldn’t notice that their money was funding a fever dream.
Smuggled capsules and tablets with bottles of diet green tea, swallowing them by the handful in the girls bathroom. Every week I’d visit that aisle and worship at the feet of laxatives disguised as lollipops, teas that promised to rid me of the padding my ancestors used to survive cold winters under thin coats, supplements that would secure my spot within the ranks of the
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