I sit with food like it’s a test,
my hands are calm, my chest is not.
I tell myself I’ll try my best,
then panic twists the final thought.
I chew, I swallow, count the time,
my heartbeat loud, my breathing thin.
The fear arrives, right on its line,
and tells my body not to win.
I leave the table quietly,
I always know just where to go.
The mirror doesn’t look at me,
it’s learned too much, it already knows.
My throat obeys before my mind,
a practiced motion, fast and rough.
Relief and guilt are intertwined—
it’s over quick, it’s never enough.
I wash my hands. I rinse my mouth.
I stand back up. I play my part.
No one can tell what just went south,
no one can see the breaking heart.
Two months of barely eating right,
of hunger dulled by stricter rules.
Empty feels safer than full tonight,
control feels wiser than being fooled.
I laugh on cue. I say I’m fine.
I dodge the questions, shift the scene.
I hide the damage, toe the line
between what’s shown and what I mean.
My body begs, my mind refuses,
they’re locked in war I can’t outrun.
I lose no matter who I’m choosing,
yet still I wake with every sun.
I don’t do this to be dramatic,
or for attention, or to be seen.
I do it because staying present
sometimes hurts worse than being clean.
There’s grief for ease, for gentle days,
for meals that didn’t end in shame.
For who I was before this maze
taught me hunger had a name.
But somewhere under all this fear,
a quieter voice still survives.
It led me here. It wrote this here.
It wants a softer way to live.
I don’t know how to end this fight,
or when I’ll ask for someone’s hand.
But writing this into the night
means part of me still wants to stand.
