Yellow Light

October 2, 2010
Empty- hollow. Ache. What’s a steel safe worth if it’s protecting nothing? Fill it. Stuff. Bite; after bite; after bite. I’ll whisper my secrets in ears, left to right, whisper my dark intentions, my battle with the bowl. I’ll whisper and whisper until my voice is too faint to be heard, or; until someone stops the bleeding.
It starts stopping when it starts stopping. To start it stopping I need a reason to stop, a stopper to start stopping the starting of it, the stopping of it is the only thing that could stop it from starting to worsen. Stop.
Green light?

Red light?
No, this light is yellow. Amarillo; ugly, it’s not pure, it’s filtered and re-filtered and bathing my cushioned bones in unflattering light. I watch the face in the water. Watch it see and watch its reaction. Disgust. The safe is empty.

I’ll whisper my secret but you won’t want to hear it. I whisper to the bowl. Its reply drips down my face, mixing and mingling with my single tear. The tears multiply, the bowl keeps splashing, my tongue keeps bleeding. My teeth tear it apart.
What am I thinking? Nothing, everything, what are you thinking that I am thinking? Are you thinking that I’m thinking of the starter that can start the stopping? I’m thinking hopeless. There is no starter. It burns all the way up.
Liquids now pour from my face, all swirling together in a brown-tinged spiral. Salty, snotty, supposed to stay separate, swishing and sliding down smooth sides.
I’m bulimic.

How to respond to that? You wonder.

That’s why I’m waiting, that’s why I’m whispering. I’m praying.

Who can say the right thing? Who can say the thing that will make me believe I’m beautiful? Who will say what it takes to stop this? I don’t know.

I’m trying. Believe me, because you better believe to beat bulimia.

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