Junior Week,
as well as
the black-out
football game,
and the
Hope Squad week
pass uneventfully.
Cadence and I spend
our Fridays
curled up on
the couch in
her basement
that feels like
it's going
to eat you,
while I nibble
on pizza I used
to scarf down.
Cadence knows
that I take naps
and cough up
half a ton
of mucus
before I come over
so I'll have
the energy
to eat an entire
slice.
I tease her
when she complains
about how hard
it is
to eat when her
nose is stuffy.
She mimics
chewing as fast
as possible
so she can
gasp for air.
I exaggerate
sometimes
when I eat
around her,
but only
a little.
Because eating
without breathing is
my reality.
When we eat
together,
she chews about
a thousand times
so I'm not alone.
But she eats
normal sized meals.
Because she doesn't have
to worry about
her stomach bloating
too much
and putting
pressure on
her diaphragm
and lungs.
Because she can
slouch
after eating,
though she
sits up
straight
with me
and we let
our stomachs
digest without
disruption.
Unlike me,
Cadence eats
three meals a day
and isn't exhausted
afterward.
She doesn't
try to plan her meals
as small
and as far apart
as possible
so she can rest
in between
eating times.
Which makes school
hard.
Because there's no
resting
when you're expected
to be somewhere
and work on something
every waking
second.

Cadence tells me
not to compare
my body to hers,
like we're thinking about
our weight.
And I don't mean
to minimize
the people who
worry about that
even when they don't
need to.
It's just hard
not to scoff
internally at
how much smaller
that is
than dying.
Though you can die
from an
eating disorder,
too.

Sometimes I wish
I could be obsessed
with my weight
instead of my
lung capacity.
It would be nice
to be a normal
teenage girl
for once.