Jefferson Drive

//rations//

If I could be so bold, I would

Serve my troubles to my companions

On a platter so plain that they can do nothing but

Feast their eyes upon the devastating concoction of

Overcooked stressors and undercooked self image and rotting respect

Which make up my daily rations.

Young adult novels tell me that when facing all the shit,

They will hold me tight and wring out those anxieties and

I will be fine in the end because they

Care and they love and they embrace the girl they

Only half believe is beautiful inside and out.

I suppose they're lucky to some extent, given I no longer

Gorge myself on the foods which fill my stomach with

Dread

And my heart with

Longing.

Now, when I must, I will bite at my lip in order to

Avoid the act of sinking myself further with an anchor of

Accumulated weight which drags me deeper into

This cavern of bad bad bad thoughts.

I've learned to stomach small portions once or

Twice a day, just so that the cross looks don't follow me around school.

Someone accused me of anorexia the other day

As I drank only water at lunch, said that

I need food more than I need oxygen;

Only this anorexia is trying to be cured, and does not concern

My apathy toward most vegetables and meats and

Anything that isn't Saltines.

Rather—if such a thing can exist outside of narrow textbook definitions of health—

It is my soul which is craving more love,

Craving more warmth,

Craving more hope,

Craving more light,

Craving more.

I set out for replacements for the antinutrients on my plate,

Hunting for something—anything—that could satisfy the hunger which

Is not satiated by dismal emotions, painted in black and white and

Gray.

The shelves of every store off every corner of my life are stocked with

Pretty pink packages of the perfect predicaments that

Don't mean anything but a minor headache. Hardly detectable.

But WIC doesn't cover the sweet
or the sour
or the tasteful,

Just the basics,
just the dismal gruel that keeps you

Living but unsatisfied.

I'll eat this soupy concoction of needs and everything everyone else has rejected.

My platter is still full of

Dissatisfaction and delirium, but I suppose

The state government doesn't ration to create constant contentment,

Instead only to keep my limp but not dead.

✨💫✨💫✨

Word count: 400

Published: 30 September 2017