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A Recovery Poem

(Pictured: Lily Collins in To The Bone, a Netflix Original)

Saliva pools, you are suspended in the ether, a decision is biting at your tongue,

a crisp bite of garden-fresh green celery sends your mouth watering,

a dip of buttermilk – or maybe even peppercorn – ranch dressing,

if you’re feeling especially calorically comfortable,

you went from skinny to skin, from boney to bones,

baggy sweats masked in cigarette smoke,

lipstick rims on chipped coffee cups,

two shakes of sugar and a dash of milk,

a single sip on your steady breath – never more,

you fight it,

at least

you tell yourself that

you believe it, too

you rearrange morsels of carrot cake across royal ornate plates, unnoticed,

wielding a polished silver spoon, your proud shovel,

you are invincible,

at least

you tell yourself that

you believe it, too

you take gulp after gulp, ice cold water,

you revel the feeling as it trickles

down your throat and into the depths of an empty stomach,

a vacant victory,

sometimes you miss it,

being sick, that is,

but you are better now,

at least

you tell yourself that

and oh, you believe it,


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