I saw her at a Chick Fil-A just outside
Walla Walla Washington.

She had her head down, walking fast,
and slammed into me as I was entering and
she was leaving. The contents
of her purse went everywhere:
one wallet, one lipstick, six packs of sugar free gum, Wrigley’s, and
candies. The floor was littered with tiny sweets and
wrappers. She was blushing a deep red
so I stopped and helped, dropped to my knees,
and I knew when she looked into my eyes.

I followed her outside to the rest stop picnic benches,
riddled with pigeons and empty Coke bottles.
She was eating alone: one strawberry
milkshake, one twelve piece nugget meal, and a large waffle fry. She placed cherry wine lips
around a thick bendy straw and sucked down
the bubblegum pink slop
quicker than most people could take a sip.

I catalogued her: teeth marks on her knuckles,
bruises on her knees,
the air of insecurity:
she’s like me.
Probably born to unrealistic expectation,
spiraling out of control, jamming
her fingers down her throat to
make sense of it all. This is a guide
to spotting my fellow bulimics:

she’ll drink that strawberry milkshake so she
knows when each poisonous bite is
purged from her system, the toilet water turned imitation pink,
she’ll chew
that sugar free gum, three sticks at once,
after bruising her knees on the bathroom floor
and swear to never eat again but

it isn't that simple. She’ll drive a few miles away
from the rest stop bathroom where her lunch
made a sudden reappearance, disgust prominent on her breath like vomit and
peppermint.

The candy in her bag is calling, though. She’ll
reach for it after
Mile Marker 26. I am not judging her; I am
her.
I take comfort in her bubblegum pink,
in the way she’s prone to blush and apologize
for acts of existence. I see kinship
in self-indulgence, self-hatred, the cyclical
nature of it all.

I see us everywhere. I see myself in
all of you.