My appetite.
That was the first to go.
Suddenly that bowl of pasta sickens me.
My favorite cake disgusts me.
I won’t even touch a piece of bread.
My tummy grumbles, but I resist.
I’m not hungry.
Or so I come to convince myself.

My freedom.
That was the next to go.
I can’t leave the house.
What if I have to go to the bathroom?
What if I can’t make it?
And god-forbid I am forced to eat.
I can’t do it, I can’t do anything.
The “what if’s” told me so.

My body.
My body soon follows suit.
I’m losing weight.
Five, ten, fifteen pounds.
As I slim, my body shuts down.
Even with a lighter burden,
My body can’t carry its weight.
But its okay, my body reassures me.

My will.
My will slowly vanishes.
I have nothing to gain, nothing to lose.
Why even bother?
It hurts if you eat, it hurts if you don’t.
The pills do nothing, the needles just hurt.
They can’t fix me, so what’s the point?
My mind gives in, there’s nothing left for me.

My hope.
My hope is fading.
The doctor says he will try.
But my stomach is relentless.
We will fix you, we can make it better.
But I don’t even remember what better is.
Where can I go from here?
Is there any hope left?

I am lost.