Anchor

He sat on his bed.

His legs stuck to his bedsheet,

His hands to his side,

His neck to the pillow, his back to the pain.

He felt hunger in his stomach,

Sometimes faint, sometimes loud.

He wanted to make some food,

He knew what to cook…

He knew…

What to cook

What to cook.

What to cook?

What to COOK!!?

Spent the whole day there,

The time to make breakfast

Became the time to make dinner,

Became the time to make his last meal.

‘Get up.’, he told himself.

‘Get up.’, he yelled at himself.

He slapped himself hoping he’d get up.

Thought of stabbing himself,

Hoping the need for medical attention

Will make him get up.

.

.

.

Scolded himself for thinking that.

He could feel his body

Finding any energy it could muster

To not fall asleep.

He had to stay awake to eat.

He hated himself for it

Getting to this.

Why did he?

Didn’t mean to.

Was he self destructive, self sabotaging?

It’s all worth it, the effort is worth it.

He knew it, why couldn’t he do it.

He called his sister to ask for advice.

Read her everything

I just wrote in first person.

She gave him the same advice

He gave himself already.

He knew it didn’t work already.

& the 41 other ways he’d tried.

He made good food, people raved about it.

Clearly he’d made it before because people liked it.

Why couldn’t he do it again?

He wanted something salty,

tears didn’t suffice anymore.

The hunger, no energy, he felt horrible.

The pain due to it wasn’t terrible,

Not all the time at least

But it was always there and sometimes

In all ways possible.

Ran through every recipe

He knew in his head

But none of them felt simple enough,

No matter how little the prep was.

He was making a mistake again and

Once again scolding himself the most.

For the next 111 minutes

He just yelled at himself.

All he needed was one meal

And he couldn’t even do that.

The hurt wasn’t unbearable

But the exhaustion from it was.

So he tried the 43rd thing he hadn’t tried

Because he didn’t think he

Just deserved it yet.

He’d been making mistakes for so long,

Maybe this was too.

So when the gastric acids finally left his stomach

And made his mouth bitter,

He forgave himself.

For a lot and for nothing.

His tears became sweet as

He finally got up.

His skin peeling off because

It still didn’t want to leave.

He chose to forgive it too,

Cleaned all his wounds

And prepared himself a massive feast.

When he finally finished it after 2 and a half hours,

He didn’t feel content but at least he felt lighter.

A lot lighter…

but still anchored.