Burnt toast reminds me of my grandfather. Strong and dark. Bold and hard. Will leave you raw if you don’t swallow it just right. I don’t know when food started being my only comfort. Maybe it was when I accidentally pissed the bed and my dad beat the living shit out of me so bad that I was afraid to even look at him so he bought me a kit Kat bar to apologize, but never actually said the words of “I’m sorry.” Just explained why he did it. Maybe it was when I would try to eat the fastest out of my siblings that totaled 6 of us so I could get seconds first because food just seemed like there was too much of us and not enough of it. Maybe it was the 3 am tiptoes to the Oreos my father use to hide on the top shelf of the pantry behind the flour. It was like a ceremony, splitting the two sides in half, slowly licking off all of the cream, placing one dark circle in the middle of my tongue then pressing it to the roof of my mouth so it broke in half, those quiet crunches so I wouldn’t get caught. I don’t know what rushed to my blood faster, the secrecy or the sugar, but ecstasy nonetheless. Food was my first unrequited love. The pleasure I derived from the preparation and devour. Until there’s nothing left but dirty dishes and a guilty feeling that leaves you so full you can barely move. I have an addiction. The hardest part about it is that I literally would die without food. So, how could I ever quit? How can I manage it when my drug of choice so happens to be something that keeps me alive.

I’ve always been mixed up. Like ingredients that don’t go together. Cheese and chocolate or sour cream and pretzels. I make no sense.

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