Part VI · Settled
Feast
A cutting board.
Half a pound of turkey.
An onion.
Garlic, salt, rice, lettuce—
sprawled across the counter
like comfort.
I peeled the skin,
cut slow.
The onion didn’t make me cry.
I hummed—
a song I once couldn’t bear.
In heat,
the onion turned transparent
with its weeping,
just as I once did—
under pressure,
under watch.
No voice hovered,
no numbers ran through my mind.
Not calories,
not macros—
only hunger.
I craved taste.
Not control.
I cooked without fear.
I cleaned without guilt.
And when I ate,
I didn’t measure.
I feasted.
The first bite—
full.
The second—
joy.
The third—
everything
I always wanted it
to be.