Poetry - Breakfast.

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.For a time, it was my only meal of the day.For a time, it was the only thing keeping me alive.But eventually, of even that I deprived myself.I craved the feeling of ice cold water tricklingdown to fill an empty stomach with nothing.Water could do no harm. Once it was digestedit was weightless, only passing through,cleaning, cleansing, untraceable, invisible.I was always cold, as I wanted to be,the warmth uncomfortable, suffocating.Freezing all my softness, shrinking andrestricting until I was small enough.But I was never small enough, andjust before it was too late I learnedthat I never would be, I never would besmall enough. That was the trick,the game, and no one ever wins.Tea with friends was missing out onconversations because my mind wasovercome with contemplations,did I deserve a biscuit?Tea with a drop of milk was twenty already.You see a harmless treat, I seeno exceptions for a week.Another hour long walk, runif you can, and sixty jumping jacks,one hundred to be sure.All day everyday, the calculator checklistin my head would monitor every bite,every move, even when emptyit was still too full.Adding and subtracting,taking more than giving.Every bite alarm bells, every swallowdeath resounding like a canon as inthe hunger games, only this was real.Breakfast is still my favourite meal of the day,and that is ok, now that I no longer deprivemyself of the others. The calculator isn't goneaway completely, it interjects now and then,but I know now how to tune it out. I knownow, not only what I deserve, but what I need.I played the game, and discovered that what Ionce believed to be a win was not, for theonly prize is death, a losing battle all the way.But I got out of it ok, and need not admitdefeat, for truth be told I'm better now,I've gained more than what you see.