Eating disorders are never romantic.
Sometimes, I dream of food:
Burgers, cakes, fries set out in a pan of grease that's deep enough to swim in—
I get lost in it. I eat and eat and push my blue-tinted fingertips into layers of frosting and cream, letting chocolate bliss wash over me like a baptism.
Then I wake up.
Guilt rips into my bones, and I feel a sick sense of relief.
I clutch my aching stomach, run my palms against the protrusions of my hips.
I lick my lips and swear that I could taste honey and brown sugar, and for a moment I lay in bed watching dots in my vision swirl away into the unknown.
My feet are as cold as the rest of my body, and I think for a second how nice it would be to wake up warm.
How would it feel to turn over and see a lover sleeping next to me? I don't know. I've never known, but I like to imagine.
For breakfast, an egg (75) with plain toast (95) and tea (5).
Round up. Always round-up. I don't finish. I never finish. I'll repent if I do.
Waking up is cracking joints and a tight jaw. The only thing to comfort me is hot bitter water and hope in between numbers. Always numbers.
I catch my reflection in the door of my microwave. I turn away.
Sometimes, I dream of food.
On other days, I wish I couldn't dream at all.