worse.

Judging by the full box of granola bars in the pantry, it’s getting bad again, and my mother can see it like an oncoming storm 

However, despite the ferocious winds, she asks me only twice if I’m eating right 

I lie to her twice, wearing my poker face like a badge of honor, and she moves on to other matters 

She once told me that if I don’t eat, I will die 

And to that, I raise a glass of my low-calorie juice and down it. 

When I automatically tear apart my meals into tiny bites, leaving the bread away from the rest of my food, I know it’s getting bad again, but no one understands what it means, except me 

My food rituals keep me sane, like a devout worshipper praying to their god 

If these rituals are my religion, then I must be maddened with faith 

It is a way to count without processing the numbers, a way to keep my streak of faux-sobriety 

It is a way to record my highs and lows without a calculator 

The health website says that if I don’t get better, I will die 

And to that, I take my sandwiches apart and leave my bread untouched. 

Finding myself unable to breathe as I read other people’s stories but don’t look away, I know it’s getting bad again 

There are tears in my eyes as I stare at their skeletal bodies, a look I was never able to achieve 

I always thought I was just healthier than them, but my therapist called me “severe” 

Despite her claims and wild accusations, I only feel like an anorexic when my stomach eats itself 

When my body can no longer handle the pressure of perfection 

I have been told by science teachers that malnourished people die 

And to that, I scream from my empty chest that I am not malnourished 

/ 

And to that, I stare death in the face again and again and again 

I do not feel severe 

I feel good, I feel brave, I feel right in my awful choices that I would never encourage 

My terrible coping mechanism, because breathing exercises can only do so much 

It is wrong, it is twisted, and one day I will learn again what I beat out of my soul with diets and running 

One day, I will realize that severity does not have a look, and “severe” is not a person, but a problem to be fixed immediately 

One day, I will grow up and understand that an empty stomach never fixed anything 

One day, I will stop being content with the idea of death grabbing me before I reach twenty-five 

One day, someone will tell me that I am going to die if I don’t stop 

And to that, instead of putting a napkin over my food 

I will pick up a fork and eat.