This is not the resurfacing of an old disease.

This is not the passionate rendezvous of an old, personified nervosa.

This is not,

and never will be,

The Old.

This is me battling the reflection in every glassy surface

that I,

yes, go out of my way to find.

This is me at the candelit dinner,

smiling,

and listening to you,

and tuning out the guilt

of enjoying my meal.

Every chance I get

I wish for the sickness to return,

as it has even fooled me 

that it went away.

Because I trust the gravity

that pushes me down,

to tell me that I'm healthy now.

Because, clearly, I am no longer

bones.

But I am a husk.

And as many layers as you can

pull away from my core,

you will never find it.

Because this is me.

This is me 

and the dwindling sense of 'person' I carry.

This is not the new person

you all like better,

because there was never an old me.

I am still my goal weight,

that is unreachable,

because just like the circumstances

of the life around me--

it is always declining.

I am starting to wonder 

how small I need to be

before I realize how small

I have already become.

This will never be old,

and I will never understand,

how I can't let it go.

There are spirits in my head.

So many I can't think,

I can't see,

with these ghosts

floating past my pupils.

The lights they flicker

in my mind

and the China breaks

across the walls

so I can't hear,

I can't think.

And these ghosts--

man, are they noisy!

They are noisy

when they whisper,

when they wail.

When I am crying,

eating,

sitting,

I can't stand it.

I am breaking

against the floor.

The chandelier

is shaking

as the spirits

have their fun.

I am not your playground.

I am not a child.

I can't think

with this headache.

I can't hear,

they are noisy!

I can't see,

with my eyes closed.

I can't think!

I can't think!

When I was young,

I sung a song

with a word

I heard

but didn't understand.

Hallelujah.

And my father

heard me sing

a song

his father sung

that he passed on

to me.

Hallelujah.

And when I grew

into myself,

I finally knew

the meaning of

all the little,

all the different,

Hallelujahs.

I think you've ruined me

in a way that doesn't quite hurt

as much as it suffocates sweetly.

There's something about

looking back on everything you've said

and finally seeing each lie

as they scraped your bottom lip

on the way out.

I think I was addicted

to the taste of your blood

when I kissed you.

It seemed to mingle well

with my tears

and stained my lips just enough

to mark your territory

as the summer home

that seemed more fun

when you were younger.

I always settle. What I get is all I allow in. I've never thought of that as being a bad thing, as change has always been too looming to look directly in the eyes. Maybe settling isn't that bad. I've lived many years just fine with my 9 to 5 and my dinner calendar and my lights-out-at-eleven "policy". This is just how it is. This is just how I've lived. This is just how I've stayed slightly above the sinking floor.

The sun is shining, and the cars are moving, but am I? No. Is that bad? No. Is that good? Sometimes. Sometimes content is what we need. We need stable and unshaken. We need a good floor repairman.

But when that floor isn't so wobbly anymore, and I have a day off from work, and I decide maybe I'll do something different--that's when happy begins. Taking those extra steps up the stairs to a new level is happiness. Happiness isn't settling, it's fighting. Happiness is bettering yourself even when you don't want to because something might go wrong. It's a bliss that is as ephemeral as an un-scuffed floor. It's a new house smell. It's being at the top of a flight of stairs knowing you have the choice to walk back down to the ground floor when you need that 9 to 5 and that bedtime routine.