Hunger is no longer a feeling

That sits in the pit of my stomach.

The first time I skipped a meal

It was summer, so we were out of school.

My sister and I were too afraid

To face the man downstairs.

We skipped lunch and told him we ate

So he beat us for lying.

Eventually, years later,

The feeling of hunger

Became cozy and warm

Like going home.

I stopped eating

For all but once every few weeks.

For two long years

My body because muscle and bone,

To the point where I could

Lay my fingers between my ribs

And a gaunt sunken-ness

Appeared around my eyes.

I craved not food,

But the loving attention

Of someone who could

Convince me that sustaining my life

Would actually be worth my time.

I longed for the touch

Of someone who would

See my broken body

And help me make it whole.

But I woke up one morning

And realized no one cared.

My mother didn’t care,

My daddy didn’t know.

I broke down and gave up

And looked in the mirror.

All I could find was ugly.

My protruding hipbones,

My serrated spinal cord.

My body disgusted me,

And I felt naked, exposed, and afraid.

Today, I don’t care too much for food.

Hunger is no longer painful.

It is a comfortable warmth

That fills me with sleep.

But I promise I won’t be

Anorexic again.

I promise?