The Refusal

Three weeks and my body still doesn't trust food.

The toast is warm, butter pooling

into the soft center like a small yellow wound.

I sit with the plate.

Don't look at it directly.

My throat closes at the sight—

not pain, but a tightening,

the body saying no before my mind

can convince it otherwise.

He used to say I ate too fast,

didn't taste anything.

Now I can taste the refusal.

Can taste the way my stomach rises

before the bite even reaches it.

The butter cools.

The toast goes hard.

I leave it on the counter.