I have diagnosed my heart with bulimia.
When I’m with you, or her, or him, or really anyone with a sparkle in the eyes and a laugh with good musical timing, I am filled to the bursting with ice cream, a chocolate fountain is pouring out of my tear ducts, maraschino cherries decorate my round cheeks. My heart is so full of sweetness I know that what comes next cannot be good.
It only takes one word, or maybe a glance you failed to give me at just the moment I required it, and the sugar that floods my bloodstream and surrounds my liver begins to surge out of my eyes, this time not in a chocolate fountain, but in salty tears. I purge until nothing is left, and then try to purge more, wishing my bones could melt to liquid and flow out between my chapped lips.
Then comes the drought. The time of quiet reflection, where I do not allow you to feed me any ice cream. I sit at the table where everyone else comes to partake in the feast of togetherness. My hands play in the empty space in front of me, burning calories as my mind burns every thought of chocolate.
Then one day you will smile at me again, or she will ask me how I’m doing on a good morning, and my tongue will again commit the thievery of tasting the happiness my heart only wants to throw away.
My doctor says that one day I will find someone who feeds me zucchini and quinoa, and I can feed him julienned carrots and spiralized cucumbers and never again will I crave the forbidden.