I can walk into an all-you-can-eat buffet,

and my brain will light up like a gambling addict's.

Numbers running in my brain,

neon signs floating above plates counting fat and carbs and sugar,

studied late at night when insomnia was my only meal.

I can forget the chill of sucking on my breakfast ice cube,

the heat of plastic trash bags wrapped around my body in a hot shower,

the pain of my body eating itself,

living on nothing but water,

drowning my organs,

the occasional shot of vodka,

a liquid diet.

Smoke holding the whole thing together.

I can forget the many lunches I threw away,

the many joints I reached for,

and I may even forget the pills I kept hidden in a tic-tac case.

I can forget the happiness of one lost pound,

I can forget the shame of fitting into a normal-sized belt,

but I will never,

ever,

forget the calorie count of a single dinner mint.