Bulimia

Sometimes I think, right, that's it,
I'm not going to eat any more.
I'm just too fat, it's ridiculous,
embarrassing,
hideous.

I make plans for survival without food
and engage with life renewed/refreshed.

Then late afternoon, after
laundry, dishes, shower,
scrubbing bathroom,
students,
rushing home eating a sandwich
and danish I grabbed from a cafe
I remember mid-bite -
it's then I understand bulimics.

Sometimes I wish I were a starfish,
or something spiny with no flesh,
in a tidal pool, where waves glide
back and forth, back and forth,

and no one to point me
to the fat ladies section
where I'll find jeans in my size.