Sometimes I think I’ll be counting calories for the rest of my life. Old, decrepit, gray hair flowing, bags of skin slouching under my withered, tired eyes. Years passing me by as I spend another night alone. Cooking for one, eating for less. When my skin is weathered and worn from too many summer soaks in the sun, will I hold the flab of my stomach? Press down, suck in and stare. Tears in my eyes and head in my hands just to get a taste of the body I’ll never have? Will I still be searching for it? Beauty? As it is defined by them but never by me. And when my stomach roars and my muscles ache, will I surrender to myself? To loving me or pleasing them? Will I weigh every berry I pluck from my yard? Measure each glass of wine? I fear this habit will follow me to the grave- gnawing away at my soul until my flesh finally falls off my bones and rots into the earth. Then will I be free? Will it be pleased? Or will I be, still so very hungry?