Sometimes I miss being sick
The grimiest part of me wishes I had 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've considered myself to be recovered from my eating disorder for three years
But I still write about it in present tense
I also still keep all of my exes in my contact list
And for once, I don't want to write about this
For the first time I'm embarrassed instead of proud
Of all of the math things I've 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 like 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 lunchbox 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 want to go into more detail
because what if you mistake this poem for an instruction manual?
I don't know how to talk about the rabbit hole
without accidentally inviting you to follow me down it
When recovery is not all yoga mats and tea and avocados, it is work
It is reminding me that sucking on ice cubes does not count as dinner
Body, forgive me

It is not healthy to drink so much water
that your body becomes a bathtub your organs float in like loofahs
Body, forgive me

Trying to ignore the caloric calculator in my head
is like trying to ignore television subtitles
and sometimes I just can't
Body, forgive me

Recovery is hard work
Not wanting to die is hard work
Every time you asked if I was full, I heard you say fat
But I'm trying so hard not to do that
But I cannot unmemorize the calories of a peppermint

Wanting to die is not the same as wanting to come home
And I'm still trying to remember that.