inspired by “the trouble with poetry” by billy collins
the trouble with food, i realized
as i opened the chilled white coffin–
bluish light emulating from inside,
a world of forgotten sense–
the trouble with food is
that it steals the moments that should be free,
churning in my head before meals,
distracted from grace
slicing food and arranging it to be abandoned.
when it all started?
pink tights with leotards
nitpicking and comparing to the stick-thin girls
floating beside me,
on a bloody box disguised as a cloud
but still struggling to pull my bones up
and have the same skill as the gossamer girls.
food fills me for an hour
and the ache drifts away in a distraction.
food is a momentary want
to be guilt-tripped out like a broken pipe.
but mostly food fills me
with overwhelming disappointment,
to be skin and bones is everything to me,
to be nourished is a foreign concept.
and along with that, the invisible bruises,
inflicted by the resounding mind games
ending in a rumble and a gum stick.
and what a beautiful existence we’ll be,
size zero, a featherweight,
i thought to myself
as a moment of warm spice filled my nose
and i could be as free as my five year old self,
which is an innocence i stole
from an undeserving girl–
to be perfectly honest for a moment–
the forgiving girl i used to be
would be shattered if she knew
who we turned out to be so if only for her
i graze and remember that the coffin gives life.