I focus on each individual blade of grass:
like little knives, they shine
in the winter sunlight.

I focus on the traffic
as I wait for my bus and I wonder:
where are these people going?

I focus on the pavement:
faded black, like coal or *** ash.
Little white dots. One, two, three.
I wonder if the pavement was once sharper, more black?
And I wonder why it matters as I
tap tap tap my food lightly, timing each tap
with the beat beat beats of my heart:
like the tick-tock of a wall clock.

I stop tapping.
Time keeps moving, ticking
The blood continues to flow through my body, thump
The traffic continues to flash by, woosh honk, and I wonder:
where are these people going?

Every time I
catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window I
have to check.

Legs. Still there, apparently.
Still thin even though I
ate lunch today.

Every time I
sit down on the toilet to *** I
have to check.

Tailbone. Still protrudes a little, apparently.
Still hasn’t disappeared, isn’t
buried under fat even though I
put milk in my coffee this morning.

Softly, gently
My hands explore my back, tracing up
along my spine because I
have to check.

I wonder if I look a bit like
a dinosaur illustration from a child’s encyclopaedia:
you know, the one with the triangular bump-y things
running along its back?
Stegosaurus! That’s the one!
(I had to Google it.)

I have to check.

We talk about food but
not about food.
When I stand on the scales, shaking, eyes darting from
side to side, like I’m
desperately looking for an escape route, you know
who I’m scared of.
When I lose a pound, you know
that I’ve had a **** week.

Protein! Fibre! Vitamin D! Calcium!
So constipated.
What’s a carbohydrate that isn’t bread?
I had half a bowl of porridge and half a cup of tea this morning–
I was in a rush! I didn’t want to be late! I sleep in
until 10am now! It’s great!
But you know.
****.

We talk about food but
not about food.
****.

We’ve all got a wee guy sitting
on our shoulder.

Her wee guy tells her to
have another glass of wine!
have another glass of wine!
one more glass of wine! To help you relax!
(She has to get up for work at 6am tomorrow
morning.)
(Her office is a 25 mile drive from her home.)

Your wee guy tells you to
just take off the ******!
She’s on the pill and
it’ll feel better for both of you!
You can’t remember when you were last tested for STDs and
you’re so drunk that
you can’t even remember her name.

The wee guy on my shoulder
sits with his legs crossed, slit-eyed, and instructs:
“If you’re going to have a Brie toastie for lunch, you must use low calorie bread. Less than 70kcal per slice. No butter. No jam. No pesto. No spread. You don’t
deserve to taste.”

The ‘opportunity cost’ of tasty cheese
is bread like cardboard:
brittle like my bones and
dry like my hair and
lacking.
Which is
exactly how I feel about myself sometimes.

I used to turn my head towards him
and say: “okay, pal, I’ll do exactly as you say!”
Today I said
I should put pesto on my Brie toastie
I have a bit of weight
still to restore and
I really like pesto!

I like
myself sometimes.

So I had a Brie and pesto toastie for lunch and
moved on with my day.

I can’t sit still
on the bus today.

I’m looking down and
from side to side.

I make circle around my left thigh with my hands
like I’m trying to tie a rope around it:
a portable measuring tape.

I tighten the noose. I try not to
groan. I dig my nails
right in. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.

I loosen my grip and
put my feet up on the chair in front of me
and check my knees are looking sufficiently
knobbly today. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.

The sweaty, red-faced punter
who got on at Busby and sat down next to me
smells like all the things I hate about Glasgow:
cheap *****, stale cigars and
a sausage supper. Greasy chips drowning in vinegar, choking
on salt.

In the space between us
he shoves his rucksack.
When I feel it against my leg I
flinch. Another sensation connecting me to
this world.
I slide to the right, apologising to Mr. Greasy Chips like
I’ve done something terribly wrong and I
just don’t want to feel—
I don’t want to feel the fabric touching my body.

I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
If I were smaller, just a bit smaller
there would be enough room
for his ******* bag.

I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m coughing because of the stale cigar smoke and
some guy’s cheap aftershave
and I’m wondering why
I
take up
so
much space.

I’m writing an essay
on purging variables. It involves some fieldwork:
today I’m going try porridge. Yesterday I tried soup and cucumber slices.
Hypothesis: If I use a 2:1 fluid to oats ratio, it’ll be so ******* easy that
it will barely qualify as
self-induced regurgitation!
Result: self-hatred, an electrolyte imbalance, a ******* sore throat and
two hours of my life that
I will never get back.

(Once, I really wanted to purge an ice cream cone. Instead
I was staring back at
bits of a cheese toastie and salad, which I’d
had before
the cone.
****’s sake.
Bodies are weird!
Or maybe
the data I’ve been gathering on this
pro-ana forum is unreliable? Citation needed.)

I’ve got a presentation tomorrow
on calorie deficits.
If you want to have 35g porridge oats and 45g banana for breakfast
then you must make it with 120ml water and 80ml almond milk!
Or you could
skip the banana entirely and
Have 45g oats with
a drizzle of honey.

It’s as simple as that!
This or that—
If P then Q
A scientific practicality!

A logical fallacy
eroding my sanity.