I meet a girl with khaki eyes
and a ponytail smile, seventh grade

our group therapist assigns her a challenge
for tomorrow: to come downstairs for breakfast

makeup-less. as if eating right smack dab in the middle
of someone else’s whole morning wasn’t challenging

enough. both of us know breakfast
means mountain climbing, fanged

mouth opening, sword-swallowing, publicly
growing, combat-ready stomachs on protest

our group therapist says: it is not a shot cannon,

it is only breakfast.

we gape at her, barreled eyes like drains,

jealous she could look at a fork
and see anything less than a harpoon.

today, the girl with khaki eyes
has a tight-braided smile, seventh grade
she wears fifty-five minutes worth of makeup
in her petal paper thin trimmed hospital gown

I look like 5-hour energy, e-cigarettes, chewing
gum. popping skinny pop by the measuring cup.

at lunch, I pat the grease off my pizza with
napkins, careful to get only the paper damp,

so as not to accidentally absorb
the pizza grease through my palms.

I realize this is irrational thinking.

the girl with khaki eyes watches me under her
breath, pawing at her quarter-slice of pepperoni

with paper towel. later, I warn our group therapist:
do not ask me when meal times became war zones.

as if you could understand how serene it feels
to be a vacant phase of the moon. how you, too,

could become like helium, if only people
held you as if they feared you would leave.