The speaker describes how hard it has become to eat. Even soup is difficult, and pasta feels like something that clings inside the stomach and makes them gag. They want the food gone from their body, yet they force themselves to eat a little because they know they must. By their own count, it's now less than 1000 calories a day. A simple bagel at a Saturday breakfast becomes a struggle, and while everyone else enjoys a big meal, the speaker slips away upstairs.
The poem traces this pain back to years of being called fat or a pig, especially in high school. The speaker knows, in a rational way, that no one really cares, then corrects themselves: people do care, enough to keep judging. The mood is raw, tired, and confused. The ending trails off with "but i do...", showing someone who can't understand why those voices still have power over them, and can't make them stop. The lowercase, plain style makes it feel like a private confession.