The First Time You Decide to Eat Whatever You Want
You decide to be your own witness. Say, I am doing this. I am doing what I once deprived my body of for so long. The prosciutto bursting on your tongue like a salted flower, the butter melting across the sourdough. You tear into everything like death except there is no dying in finally giving yourself what you need. This is how you pray when you have no religion - for the almost sensual pink bleed of peach juice into your waiting palms, for the finally full stomach, for the standing before the mirror in only underwear and understanding at last how ugly the constant desire for beauty can be, for the soft weight of your breasts and the lightning along your thighs, for finally realizing the immense and sudden significance of infants’ teething: so they can learn how to open and swallow the world they deserve. You fall back in love with fishnets and how to look straight at your partner with the lights on.
You used to be obsessed with Houdini, how he could disappear and then reappear in mere minutes, from water or straitjackets, from being buried alive.
You used to want to disappear too, but, unlike Houdini, never come back again.
But as you sit here amid the meal that you finally want, you also want, for the first time in your life, to be alive, to be seen, to live instead of practicing.
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