so it starts with a girl, barely the age of 10 and already wondering when the baby fat will melt off
glances in the mirror at unwanted curves and softness
why would a 10 year old need to worry about their body?
comments from a father about diets and diseases and suddenly food stops being a necessity but a burden
a brother remarking how a second helping is how you develop diabetes, you don't eat again that night
mom tries to help, "you've got a nice figure" she says
it only makes you hate the softness more
so a girl, at the ripe age of 17, decides that food is no longer a nessesity but a burden
a few months into it a friend makes a joke how you need to start eating more because of how small you're getting
you laugh it off and ignore the pride swelling in your chest
because food was never good or nourishing
but rather numbers on a scale and buttons that didn't quite close
because food was always a burden and never a nesessity

I never wanted this.
I never wanted this hell upon me but she just grabbed me in her cold bony arms. She hugged me so tight and she would not let go. I am so **** cold. I cannot move anymore. I cannot run. She is eating my soul and my body away. Her lifeless cold eyes seemed so warm to me. She was my friend and my lover. She played me over and dragged me into this wretched hole. Thoughts would repeat all over_
I am fat
I am fat
I am fat
I believe her words. She brain washed my brain thinking into it that she is always right. She must be.

It'll speak to you when you wake
Thus I wallow long in bed
Till I hear and duly feed
Then I'll rise and eat the cake

It'll speak to you when you wake
Even at times before bed
Then you're waiting as dawn peeks
To run with no time for cake

It'll speak to you when you wake
But ignore it before bed
In nightmares it'll haunt your sleep
Till you walk and forgo cake

It'll speak to you when you wake
Why study when time for bed
Books are weary but sleep's sweet
Thus you'll eat and keep the cake

It'll speak to you when you wake
If not you'll despise your bed
To roam and ceaselessly seek
For real food and not the cake

Savor these hard times,
Cherish every drop,
For one day they'll be
far past and behind.

Joy is warm and sweet,
Anger burns the tongue,
Sadness makes its case,
Dressed in smoky char.

Let the others eat
portions meant for kings;
I am far too well
With the bits I find.

she has produced a biscuit
that claims a Mona Lisa likeness
confectionary imbued with worth
far beyond a humble foodstuff
to be digested by a sweet tooth
novelty birthday gift consumed
likeness acknowledged in a minute
taste appreciated in seconds
party over

Leonardo lived with her as a mistress
never parting with his commission
of a merchant’s daughter
perfecting every stroke and nuance
haunted by that beguiling smile
she had him in her clutches forever
now the world lives for the minute
appreciates in seconds and moves on
there are no more banquets
just mere morsels

I starve myself
But not to feel pretty and skinny
I stop eating because I’m not hungry
I stop thinking about food
And I stop thinking about what
I have eaten and what I want to eat
I go hungry even if there is food
I don’t think hard about what I should
Eat and what I should see
Maybe I’m scary
But I starve myself
To feel something

When your sister
died, it was the blue
box of Kraft Macaroni and
Cheese. Your half-
sister from your
father’s previous
marriage cooked it up
for you—she was only
a year or
two older than
you were—and you fell
asleep there on the
floor, where it remained half-
finished for the entire
night. When you
awoke the next
day, before you had even
opened your eyes, you 
thought for a brief
moment that maybe it
had all been just
a dreadful nightmare, but
then you opened them and
there the macaroni and
cheese still sat, half-
eaten on that paper
plate. No—
it had all
actually happened.

When your coworker
fatally poisoned
herself, you made
up your mind to
buy the nicest
ingredients you could
find and to cook the best
Italian pasta recipe you could
think of in order to
show your family
how much you loved
them. You wanted to be
present with them, to be still
alive with them. You
wanted to not
make the same
mistake twice, but
then there you were
at dinner, distant
for the entire
meal, unable to even
make simple
conversation, ashamed of
the awful contortions your
brain was doing in
order to process
your guilt over
her death.

When your father
died, it was some left-
over soup you had cooked
up a week prior. You were
embarrassed about how
the black-eyed peas and
sweet potatoes had turned out;
you apologized to your
wife for their mushiness,
and she smiled sadly and told
you it was the best
soup she had ever
tasted. After a week in
the refrigerator, the kale
tasted slimy. The soup was
overhot; its texture,
nonexistent. By
this point in your life, the
texture of nearly
everything—even that
of death—had become
wholly unremarkable
to you.

And when your old
friend from college
died, there was
no meal at all—just
a hasty cup of black
coffee you poured
yourself right before the
big work presentation
began. The text
message said that
he had thrown
himself from atop a
skyscraper in lower
Manhattan, and that
he had finalized his
divorce just a few
months prior. You
thought about calling
off the meeting, but your
boss said that he
would be in
attendance and, grimly,
you decided to swallow
your bitter emotions
right along with the
coffee—you didn’t
want to let
him down.