i don’t know what it looks like
from an outsider’s perspective
when i sit for twenty minutes
staring at a glass of soy milk
unable to make myself take a sip.
i know that my hand felt like
lead every time i tried to raise
the glass to my lips.
i would have to convince myself
that each swallow was not
gasoline.
i don’t know what it looks like
from an outsider’s
perspective when i hold up
the food line
as i count out 30 perfect
blueberries and place them into my
bowl.
i know that the blueberries
had to be the right size and
firmness. so i would stand there
picking them out of the fruit
salad one at a time.
i don’t know what it looks like
from an outsider’s
perspective when i close my
eyes tightly and take a deep
breath
before raising a fork to my lips.
i know i would send a silent
prayer that each bite wouldn’t
harm me, that i would have the
strength to swallow and keep
swallowing so that i could stay
alive.
i don’t know what it looks like
from an outsider’s
perspective when i would
disappear
for minutes at a time
multiple times during a meal.
i know that i needed those
escapes, those moments to
compose myself,
to wash my hands, my face,
to calm my breaths, my mind,
to tell myself it would all be okay.
i don’t know what it looks like
from an outsider’s perspective
when i wear a shirt
that exposes my collarbones
that can hold water.
i know that when i looked in the
mirror i saw a distorted version of me:
not one that was fat,
but one that was not pretty.
i thought collarbones were oh-so lovely.
