In the college counseling center
my fingers fidget in my lap
watching the waiting room
floor tiles
preparing what to say.
The blond-bobbed woman
gives me the
saddest eyes
as I confess I’m bulimic
ask her for help.
I’m relieved the hard part is over,
but she bites her lined lips
tells me she’s
glad I’m ready to get better but
sososorry there’s
nothing she can do.
No help here.
My hope,
a bloodied mass on the floor
I drag from her office.
My hope
so tired of struggling
of fighting
of being humiliated,
but still,
my hope breathes.