RELAPSE

Sometimes, I miss being sick.
The grimiest part of me wishes I stayed
in that familiar city of grey and mental illness
and whatever the opposite of healing is,
where there was nothing to laugh about
but plenty to write about.
I have considered myself to be recovered
from my eating disorder for three years,
but I still write about it in present tense.
But for once, I don’t want to write about this.
For the first time, I am embarrassed instead of proud
of all the mad things I have done for happiness.
When a friend at dinner makes a casual comment on calories,
the scoreboard in my head illuminates with numbers again.
Once, I cut a ribbon the size I wanted to be
and wore it around my waist like a bracelet.
Bathroom scales make me feel nostalgic.
Like a scrapbook, I flip through snapshots of my sickness;
the suppers of tobacco smoke and red lipstick.
How I used to pack my lunch box
with floss and teeth whitening strips.
Last night, I painted my nails when I was hungry.
I can’t eat until the polish is dry.
I don’t know how to talk about the rabbit hole
without accidentally inviting you to follow me down it.
I don’t want to go into more detail because what if
you mistake this poem for an instruction manual?