a dinner conversation
I can feel you crawl into my throat sometimes. Feel you wriggle, grind, stop my breath in the split moment. Fingers splayed into the depths of my throat, your own mouth hitting the back of my teeth as you make yourself at home. As if you belong here. And you did once, when I was younger. Your mouth fit so perfectly in mine that it could've been the same, that it wouldn't have made a difference -- while I was too deaf to realize that should've never been the case. In the seconds between his words and mine are yours, buried so deep they're instinctual. I have to force myself back to reality before they can slip past my lips.
My brother asks again: "Are you okay?"
I blink once. Twice. Gather my thoughts and push them so far past my voice they end up a whisper. "I --"
I'm fine, you're saying. I'm okay. Just a little tired, is all.
He doesn't look convinced, but I nurse the glass of water instead to avoid answering further. Stare at the gaunt reflection in the cutlery and assess the plate before me. The pieces of chicken I'd pushed around for the past hour -- exactly sixteen now -- sit cold and unappetizing on the gummy bed of pasta, nearly pearly in the dim light. I'd made sure to dip a few pieces in the dressing at choice pauses in the conversation. His, by contrast, is a little too far from resembling mine, the scattered remnants inching off the sides of his plate -- and it's enough to make me panic. Enough to surprise me with a flood of things I should know not to know. Enough to open door after door of unwanted thoughts, guilt crashing down on me like a weight. And I can feel him looking out and into me, suddenly, the worried gaze seeing all the numbers, hunger pains, and water fasts I'd buried underneath my skin. I'm holding my features in place. His eyes flicker from mine to the plate and back again, like he wants to ask another question.
But he doesn't. He takes his card from the book and stands up a little quicker than necessary; I take the opportunity to follow suit, pulling my jacket on in the process. I've already gotten cold enough as it is. Then you're there, of course, clapping and congratulating me in my own voice. What discipline, you say, what strength! Only two bites and it's already over. Got creative with that fork, too, and using that knife to --
I set the fork slowly across my plate before we leave, if only to shut you up for a moment. Glance at this nearly blue-lipped, thin girl in the reflection, as if I hadn't been staring at her all evening. You're satisfied. I can feel you slithering back into the vice-like grip around my stomach again, voice dying in my throat, and I find myself stepping quickly behind my brother to leave the restaurant.
I can't control you, of course. I know that much. But -- I think as I step out into the night air -- there are measures that can be taken, little reminders to keep you from taking over my throat and thoughts. Staring into my reflection in the cutlery at dinner could count as one. Telling myself to try to go five bites next time instead of two, less water to fill myself up with food, something less conspicuous to force myself to eat. Just the small things.
And that's all I need, really.