Stalking Sanity

I scramble and scrabble,

pick myself up, fall

back in. Obsess a little or a lot,

not caring that I’m

starving, bingeing, purging,

choose your form

of self-destruction.

My car harbors

a plastic bag filled

with wrappers and cartons.

You are disgusting.

I can’t risk disposing

the garbage at Dad’s.

Damning evidence.

I am terrified

of car accidents,

trash from my binges

sitting shotgun beside me.

SPECIAL REPORT

We have a quote from the first responder on the scene. The officer states, “The car crash was certainly unfortunate but WHAT was with the overflowing bag of food wrappers we found on the seat beside the mangled remains of the driver?”

Stay tuned for more disgusting details!

An entire afternoon is spent

at the campus library,

in the tan-tiled bathroom.

Purging plans interrupted,

I’m in a dark corner

death-glaring

a girl as she washes her hands.

Banishing her with laser eyes.

I step forward

from the shadows;

she startles and exits quickly.

How lovely. One more person knowing

assuming I’m deranged.

I’m utterly exhausted,

sick about all the time I’ve

wasted thinking about

what-I-will-eat-or-not-eat-or-what-I-didn’t-eat-or-should-eat-or-worst-of-all-what-I-just-ate.

You ate WHAT?

I call up

my dad’s friend’s daughter,

the one like me,

ask, “Does anyone

ever recover from this?”

And because she’s been