you still call out to me sometimes.
i can feel you pumping in my veins,
and you infest every crevice of my thoughts,
and you dig into the pit of my stomach and decide
what goes in,
and what comes out,
and how much i'm
allowed or forced
to have that day.
i miss the days when what i ate didn't matter;
when i could have an ice cream without crying,
when i could miss a meal and not panic,
when i could eat, and be okay.
i miss being okay.
i just want to be okay.
just tell me when you'll let me be okay…
an: i'm realizing nothing i write is half as good on paper (screen) as when i read it.