poppy

i stopped acting in fifth grade.

yet i still do it everyday.

my smile when i hang out with my friends. acting.

when i say i’ve already eaten. acting.

i pretend like i’m not dying. acting.

but no one actually wants to deal with the real you.

as long as you act happy, no one gives a fuck.

so why not act?

even if my life sucks, maybe i can make theirs better.

but was no stranger to that of gum and ensure shakes

or the taste of stomach grumbles and garbles in math class

the type that makes heads turn from desks around

i had forgotten how to be full

it was always too much

or too little

fullness had become so foreign

accustomed to the discomfort of the vicious cycle

all i want is to eat like a normal person

everyone else can do it,

no one noticed when i started sleeping 14 hours a day.

no one noticed when i suddenly wasn’t hungry for our weekly lunch dates.

no one noticed when breakfast turned into a chore, or when rice cakes began to be meals. when instead of talking with my family, my room became my safe place. my pristine room turned to a cave, dark and messy. no one seemed to notice when the tank tops changed to hoodies, even in 90 degree weather. when i suddenly was too tired to do anything. when my hair thinned and fell out, when my smile was fake and harder to produce.