Some Days

There was a time when couldn't rid myself of the aching emptiness that stretched my ribs apart, that ran up my esophagus, burning, to argue with my mouth; pleading. A need that I refused to fill, a need that I couldn't fill for months and months after I stopped telling myself that deprivation was the only way to feeling better. A need that truly began to eat at me, ripping muscle from bone, a desperation in the act of consuming myself alive. And those days I could fully feel my spine, the edges sliding smoothly as I twisted; my hips straining against skin- asking for freedom, declaring themselves trapped by the confines of my dimensions.

Those days, I suppose I was dying, but I was flying on adrenaline as well.

The days after, on the journey back, were defined by the emptiness, defined by an obnoxious awareness of how hollow I had become- a hollow stomach within a hollow face, a hollow heart. I couldn't escape it. I couldn't erase it. It didn't matter how much I fed it, didn't matter how physically full I felt- the hollowness still screamed at me, still made me ache with that neverending need. And even now, there are moments when I am both full and empty- when I feel a ghost of the argument burning its way up again... And I am afraid of the control that this play between two opposites has taken over my mind.

I'm afraid of going back, but I'm even more afraid of forgetting what it's like to fly.