When you stand up,
your vision no longer
fuzzes or frays like
television static.

You are getting stronger.
Notice your thickening
blonde and mute stomach.

You, with your glittering
eyes, shining like newly
polished shoes.

I am so proud of you.

Your corneas are not the
dim low-battery lanterns
they once were.

When you sit down,
your tailbone does not
bruise watercolors.
Illness is not a painting.

Self-destructive tendencies
were never meant to be
exhibits in an art gallery.
When you feel like recovery
is more like betraying a good friend,

Remember it is all worth it.
The calcium tablets. The whole milk.
The meal plan. Your full belly
cushioning the sharp edges of bone.

The ice cream you kept from yourself
for so long, you forgot vanilla could taste
like anything other than giving up.

The Flintstone's gummy vitamins you
took faithfully like a morning prayer.

The scale you watched your father
saw in half. That poor body of yours
you wished he was sawing instead.

The therapists that picked you apart
with their questions- what were you
actually trying to lose?

Surely not your skin, the only
battered lover that never learns,
refusing to leave even in the hurt.
Who told you that you were not
good enough? It was you,
wasn’t it?

But look at you now,
ripe with permission
to love yourself.

You are no longer a tourist,
but the humble homeowner
of your body.

There is particular triumph
in vital victories