Feral

Two days of binging, eating everything in sight.  The hole in me can’t be filled, but I keep trying.  I’m feral now, running on instinct and cunning.  My camouflage is ragged.  I eat Kentucky Fried Chicken with my family.  I play cards with them and can barely keep from throwing the cards in the air.   Run, my body says, Hide.  I pull pictures to make a new set of collage cards.  Some distant voice talks of reducing the images 30 percent.  I want to throw them away—all the pictures, all the paper, the ink pads.  The phone rings.  I sit very still and listen to Cheryl’s voice telling me how great the Tony Awards Show is, telling me I’d like it.  I don’t move until she hangs up.  My body can’t handle all the food I shove into it.  Diarrhea.  Vomiting.  The cats brush against my legs in the bathroom, worried, seeking comfort.  They jump up on the sink, press their noses against my face.  What’s wrong with you?  I sit up in bed, my back screaming.  Take it away, I pray, then.  This is my life.  I have to find my way back.  If I’m to survive, I have to find a way through this deadly wilderness.  But, the question comes—What for?  To do it all again?  This is my life.  Moments of civilized behavior between hissing and spitting and running for cover.  Moments of control before the animal takes over.  Bolt.  Hide.  Wait.