scars or open wound.

I taste it real good

as if I'm looking for the entryway
to the open wound that lies on my heart.

And I was four
and ashamed.

I would beg my mom to cover me up,
and I would beg the world to stop.

And I was thirteen,
afraid of the looks in other people's eyes.

I'd grab my rolls
the ones on my back
every time my stomach growled.
That's what she told me.

And I was fifteen,
and purging.

My hair was thin,
my life was a mess,
and the "divorce"
never helped.

And I was seventeen,
traumatized.
Permanently.

And now I'm twenty-one,
and I miss
the burning throat,
the tears,
the heavy breathing,
and I want
but I never do.

I don't know if I'm a coward
or brave,
if I'm strong
or just in constant pain.

But I hope when I'm twenty-two,
I'll like the feeling of my stomach full.
I will enjoy watching the mirror,
and stop feeling inferior.