Bulimic Breakfast

My head rises spinning from its pillow

Pad pad pad

My feet find themselves downstairs

On the cold kitchen floor, pointed toward

A colder box of cereal that sticks its nose up in the air

I stare.

He stares.

I don’t need breakfast.

But instead I take a shiny silver spoon,

To admire

Plunge it into the nearest peanut butter jar,

And scrape off the gooey stomach to lather my tongue with belonging.

Good morning peanut butter.

The peanut butter wants a party.

I can’t disappoint. Bread, jelly, chocolate topping

Tortilla, ice cream, the leftover cake (if I can find it)

Grapes, burrito, milk, chocolate, butter straight

From the stick, the antisocial cereal, granola bars,

Crackers, raisins…

I tumble back into bed,

Drunk on peanut butter.

Cracker dust settles over my face, and it makes me sneeze.

Except the sneeze comes from my mouth.

The police are here. Run peanut butter, run!

I’ll fight you- leave before I cut you open to spill

All your pretty insides.

Acid and peanut butter, the wispy milk, the plump grapes

Skip right up my throat.

Acid burns green inside my throat, pummeling

My nerves, cutting my tongue with tiny razors

And thoughts seep up from my stomach with fumes

Like toxic waste, boiling my brain down to the size

Of a spoonful of peanut butter

With the consistency of peanut butter

Even thoughts like peanut butter

Slow and moist and too rich to be rejected.

As the guests leave the owners step in, shouting

At me, but it’s me that’s shouting at me

And I’m vomiting the hate all over myself again and again

Until I can’t take it anymore, and even again then.

I’m surrounded by peanut butter- it’s drowning me

And it will curl up inside my skin unless I get rid of it all.

Lights go out.

Ouch.

Pad pad pad

My feet carry me back to bed.

My head hits the pillow, spinning.

Muted thoughts of peanut butter delights

Whisper through my dreams.

I snuggle up with bulimia

And sigh, contented

To loathe myself.

All is right with the world.