Have You Eaten Today?

I haven’t eaten today. I’m too skinny, I know. The scale tells me that I weigh what I did when I was fourteen, I’m twenty-four now. A decade has passed and the dial below my feet has risen and fallen like my enthusiasm for life. A mountain range of jagged peaks that seem to be on a steady downward slope, cut into the blue sky like my silhouette into the blue night. I’ve found little enjoyment here at the age of twenty-four.

It’s hard to see you like this, he tells me with a soft clasp on my shoulder, enough to crumble me to pieces. Have you eaten today?

I haven’t eaten today, but I will tell him that I did. I have. I would hate to make his beautiful face cast such an ugly grimace. It’s a kind concern that I’ll accept and place in the drawer next to the bills I can’t pay and all the projects left unfinished and the recipes I’ll never cook.