The Gravity of Self-Judgement

This is not the resurfacing of an old disease.

This is not the passionate rendezvous of an old, personified nervosa.

This is not,

and never will be,

The Old.

This is me battling the reflection in every glassy surface

that I,

yes, go out of my way to find.

This is me at the candelit dinner,

smiling,

and listening to you,

and tuning out the guilt

of enjoying my meal.

Every chance I get

I wish for the sickness to return,

as it has even fooled me 

that it went away.

Because I trust the gravity

that pushes me down,

to tell me that I'm healthy now.

Because, clearly, I am no longer

bones.

But I am a husk.

And as many layers as you can

pull away from my core,

you will never find it.

Because this is me.

This is me 

and the dwindling sense of 'person' I carry.

This is not the new person

you all like better,

because there was never an old me.

I am still my goal weight,

that is unreachable,

because just like the circumstances

of the life around me--

it is always declining.

I am starting to wonder 

how small I need to be

before I realize how small

I have already become.

This will never be old,

and I will never understand,

how I can't let it go.