Once again I have added not eating to the list of ways I deal with the burden of being alive. I feel too old for this. There still lingers a strange solidarity with my seventh grade self, the way she lived on green apples & dry noodles for six months. And how her mother never noticed.
The friend I live with now has been more motherly than the womb from which I came. Yet, she knows Ana just as well as me. It is not her responsibility to take care of me. It is my own, but over a decade has come & gone & I've done a terrible job. Lately I’ve been looking at my body like it belongs to someone else. For the past seven, almost eight years it has. Brooklyn began the possession, Tori took control soon after. Watching the body Tori had taken from me slowly shrink like the crowd at a party that has gone too late. My mouth, throat, stomach have been enemies my entire life.
I miss her now that she’s gone. She is a conquered enemy. A vanquished foe. I did not want to win. Not like this. This vessel of flesh & blood is still unsure of seeking Alexis & wishing her home. She was buried, so deep that she has become the marrow of my bones. The skeleton, the frame, she is nothing more than shame.