In the Beginning
by Vero Lecocq
As I sit across the table
from my newly met RD,
she asks if I can tell her
just when this all began.
When it all began?
When it all began?
When did it all begin?
Surely not
when I discovered
that restricting
brought me praise.
Nor else when I first learned
to hide my body out of shame.
And not, I think,
those times I cried
a child’s tears
to see myself
enormous,
hideous,
amorphous,
in a world
that seemed to brim
with grace
and delicate
aesthetic.
No, not even with my birth
into this human world.
It all begin like this:
one woman
took a bite
of luscious fruit
that had been plucked
from the wrong tree
and Paradise
fell.
And so,
because of this,
I wade in illness,
in disorder,
in disease,
alone,
and empty,
and certain even now
that if I eat,
I, too, will surely die.
by Vero Lecocq
As I sit across the table
from my newly met RD,
she asks if I can tell her
just when this all began.
When it all began?
When it all began?
When did it all begin?
Surely not
when I discovered
that restricting
brought me praise.
Nor else when I first learned
to hide my body out of shame.
And not, I think,
those times I cried
a child’s tears
to see myself
enormous,
hideous,
amorphous,
in a world
that seemed to brim
with grace
and delicate
aesthetic.
No, not even with my birth
into this human world.
It all begin like this:
one woman
took a bite
of luscious fruit
that had been plucked
from the wrong tree
and Paradise
fell.
And so,
because of this,
I wade in illness,
in disorder,
in disease,
alone,
and empty,
and certain even now
that if I eat,
I, too, will surely die.