an hour into the miss americana documentary

you were sitting in the passenger seat of a car.
alternating between looking at the camera and
looking out the window. but no matter where your
eyes landed i could feel the shame burning
inside of them. it’s the same regret that grew
in my chest as my parents asked: how long
has this been going on for? ever since mirrors
became cruel things carved to cut through
skin and numbers. i remember seeing the time
that evening; it was 10:35 pm as i watched you
admit to the sin of starvation, and i could’ve sworn
my phone screen was glass. and you were looking
straight through it. speaking to my empty body
as if you could see me losing 450 calories
on a dusty exercise bike pretending i ate
more than a single piece of fruit for breakfast.
forget about food - a voice whispers. all that
matters is pedaling until you become 2-dimensional.
a piece of paper to fold and draw on. i wonder
if your voice told you to forget too when
the glossy cover of a magazine read “Taylor Swift:
18 and Pregnant?” you were only 3 years older
than i am now. i was 1 when you stopped eating,
and you were 31 when i shoved my finger
down my throat. nothing came up. but i wonder if
we have the same look in our eyes when we step
on the scale, knowing no matter what number it wraps
around our waists, we’ll still never be small
enough. and i’ll never have that kiss that saves
me from hunger. but i hope one day you’ll write a song
about the bright and burning spotlight on your stomach.

Hannah Rouse is a Sophomore Literary Arts major at Appomattox Regional Governor's School. She has been published in Asgard, Fledge, and Under The Madness, and even won runner-up in Georgia Southern University’s High School Writing Contest and an Honorable Mention in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Hannah is also a dancer and enjoys spending time with her two cats.