Recovering Bulimic Takes Ozempic
The girl with the cinnamon candle
in the crook of her elbow
is fisting as many plain M&Ms
as the Dylan’s Candy Bar scoop allows.
I imagine she’ll forget to discard
the red ones as I used to,
the wall behind the toilet splattered
red dye No. 40, like when I break
open a pomegranate.
Once, my college boyfriend and I
ate at Pizzeria Uno, known for salads
and personal size pizzas. I prefer
a skinny girl, Josh said. I laid down
the fork dipped in ranch dressing,
pushed the pan away. At night
he fingered me, keeping his pillow
on my stomach like a cookie cutter
pressing down on dough.
After—I stayed in his dorm room
and he held me from behind,
drawing lazy eights on my hard
nipples. I felt full. I slipped
into the handicap stall, bent over,
gripped the grab bars
till they warmed, tossed my self
-hatred into the bottom of a bowl,
like rocks flung from an overpass.
Now, every Monday I shoot the needle
into my yielding belly, the bruise
like a love suck. All you have
in your fridge is Tabasco and glass
vials, Mom says, no longer where I
daisy-chain donuts and Boba tea to close
my throat. Adam’s coming over; when
he hugs me, his fingers trace a thin
scar on my shoulder. I burst at the seams.
Fine Lines
I was twelve when a man swerved
his car into a puddle to wet the keep
on truckin’ graphic that sat on my breasts.
Rainwater turned my nipples into hints
of seduction, like the surprise that warmed
my cheeks when soon after I sucked
a green apple Jolly Rancher at boy’s
baseball as the team bench stared. At age 22,
stopped in two-lane traffic, the driver
opposite turned to my open window,
placed two fingers in a V under
his sucked-in lips to stick out
his squirmy tongue. For ten years,
told to smile more, say less. I began
to speed walk in traffic, unwanted blur
of yellow my right of way, No thank you,
finance bro, let me crack the sidewalk
with your pedestrian ego. Sleep tight
in your Uber of dispatched dreams,
unemployed actor who wanted to ride me—
and my bank account. If you saw me
on the street today, well, you didn’t.
Doors used to open because my calves
were like baby cows. You walk fast
for a Midwesterner, a colleague
once complimented; remembering buoys
my vanity as I grip a guardrail.
Appreciative looks hightail up Michigan Avenue,
roped off the bounce of a Keratin ponytail.
This weekend, I wear the same brilliant black
jumpsuit to a baby shower and a wedding.
I could have worn a bathrobe, no one picks up
on it. Time slips like skin before baby oil
and aluminum foil, as hungry as air I catch
after sex on my back; swallow collagen and B-12
as a chaser to my cold brew. A boy on the bus
returns me to Thursday afternoons with Philip,
who, on crowded streets would sheathe
my body from wrist to shoulder and whisper,
You’re mine. I am fooled by the young man’s
earnest gaze as he rises to offer me his seat,
murmuring homage to his Nana. Booty as low
as my self-esteem, stormy-blue eyes creased
and fading silver—I keep walking anyway,
carry on unnoticed. No longer the prize
in the Cracker Jack box, even the crummy
decoder ring. On occasion: a turn of head,
yo’ pretty lady, eyes that meet mine—
I secret shouts of glee despite the ruche wearing
my neck like a remnant of time travel. I try
to describe this to the young girls I read fairy tales
with. To ready them, no one told me: implausibility
is trickery, like hearing about mortgages, DUI’s
or your baby has cancer. Nah, that couldn’t possibly happen
to me, not like that, one replies. Don’t blink,
I whisper, circling the gua sha roller over
the top of her dewy, plump hand.
Nineteen Black Shirts in My Closet
Black, like pastry, is about desire.
I wore a black halter on our first date,
its neckline trimmed in velvet
my future husband fingered when he
kissed me in the alley behind Rock
Bottom Brewery. On our honeymoon,
I tossed forever the inky viscose cardigan
that never pilled, believing my bridal
Pilates arms and his good temper granted
me an eternal thermostat. When Aditi Shah
says, You have a right to be here,
my obsidian matching set implores
me to believe it. A charcoal boatneck
tank keeps me upright, steadies my quivering
thighs as conventioneers rush our sales kiosk.
I owe H&M’s stretchy jersey for winning
Influencer of the Year. Renee remembers my
performance review is tomorrow, Why don’t you wear
your Steve Jobs turtleneck? Walking Ollie
in the dog parade on Sunday attracts crowds
on both sides of Newbury Street; the edging
on a crop tee brushes the bottom
of my breasts and soothes my nerves
better than peppermint tea.
When I’m feeling blue, I try to choose
a pop of color —raspberry jam, Sesame
Street yellow, Cosmopolitan pink—
but they try too hard to make me laugh,
come, cry. Black, the combination of all
colors, cools the heat rash of not good enough.
I’m not better in a black shirt: I’m someone
never left out of girls’ brunch, wouldn’t dream
of slicing hot sourdough, always knows
when to leave. My guts are hanging
on a thirty-six inch closet rod.
Tucked in the drawer below,
licorice camis wedged in alongside
half as many socks. I walk into Zara,
nineteen seems not enough.
Susan Kolon is a wellness coach in her day job, and also whenever someone ‘has a health question.’ She holds an M.S. from Northwestern University and a B.A. from Michigan State University. Based in Chicago, you can find her work with Four Tulips Publishing, Quarter Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Stanchion Magazine, and elsewhere.
The Marbled Sigh 