It is defined as nutrition, source of protein, but never the weapon that was in every single one of my nightmares.
Food tastes only of recovery now, measured out scoops and bile lying in wait in the back of my throat like a dark clothed mistress.
I think that I was seven when I learned that food and I would always battle this way,
A familiar dance, dominance, pain or not. That the grip she would have on me would burn onto the inside of skin like fire raised burning red welts.
That she would become a part of me, second skin; second nature.
It is defined as nutrition, source or protein, but never the thing I could never run away from, never the object I could burn out of my skin.
And even after it all, they call this stage recovery.
They tell me this pain will not last me forever, that one day the love living dormant will flow into my empty bones, and I will once again be whole.
But they do not understand, even now.
Whole is everything that I am afraid of, that I will become someone I do not know.
And then she will win, and god, I am so tired of food winning.
I ache for the day I will win, the day she goes back to where she belongs.
The day I am so much more than whole, much more alive.