The Starbucks barista only fills my cup 2/3 of the way while making my tea and I do not feel like it's a big enough deal to speak up about,
They're busy here,
A line of people snakes around the small room and I watch my bagel burn a little, before it's shoved into a bag,
thrusted in my general direction,
I take my shit and slip away to the bar.
Taking a bite of a bagel while being watched by strangers should not feel like a successful ending to a long day and yet every 'chew and swallow' instead of 'chew and spit' is a step towards celebration.
Once again I do not feel sick,
Atypical Anorexia and Bulimia Nervosa do not seem to describe my body type as I taste cream cheese on my tongue without the afterthought of beating down the door to the nearest garbage can, or the
Nearest toilet,
Nearest escape plan from my digestive tract,
Today it doesn't feel like a victory,
It is just a fucking bagel,
toasted extra dark,
the way I prefer it and I wonder if I've done it ...
If I've actually healed myself by speaking "I am not sick" into existence,
every time I screamed it at the wall,
I wonder if it worked.
If I am magically healthy enough to write recovery poems worth a damn,
But I am not,
even as I enjoy a meal, the guilt seeps into my bones and fear raises the number on the scale and I cannot bring myself to finish a snack that once excited me.
This is not a recovery poem
Or a discovery poem
Or an admittance to a problem that comes and goes as easily as the line of busy people ebbing back and forth through the Starbucks on Main.
This is a poem, only a poem and this bagel is just a fucking bagel and both of these will pass,
Thrown out like old receipts at overcrowded mainstream coffee shops,
It's just a poem,
It's just a bagel,
Just
A
Fucking
Bagel.
(Thank you for your amazing words, Carlea, and for consistently speaking your truth. You can find Carlea on Instagram at: @carlea.the.poet, and you can find her other pieces on Peach here, here, and here.)