Survival Mode

The erasure of you

Survival Mode

It pumps your body full of anxiety, panic, and adrenaline.

No space for hunger.

No thought of food.

You're wired to stay alive on constant high alert.

Three meals a day?

A luxury for another life.

The weight begins to fall away.

You grow hollow.

Gaunt.

Your skin is ghostly pale like Casper.

Loved ones start to worry.

They ask, and they check-in.

You lie, “I'm fine."

Fear teaches you how.

They want to help, but their hands are tied.

They take you out, you pick at your plate.

They bring you meals, you let them spoil.

They buy you groceries, you lack the strength to cook.

All your energy is spent on survival

Dodging fists,

Listening for the gun cocked in silence,

Bracing for another blow.

Strangers marvel at your figure.

“What’s your secret?” they ask.

You smile.

"Just chasing kids," you say

because the truth could get you killed.

You pretend.

You hide.

You wake up another day and call it "healthy."

But the weight keeps dropping.

You clutch walls to keep from collapsing.

Your clothes hang like ghosts of who you used to be.

You wear layers of blush to fake vitality.

You used to love food.

You once out-ate boys in competitions.

A 16oz steak? Easy.

Twenty-two pancakes? Dessert.

But your abuser stripped that from you.

Your colour.

Your strength.

Your appetite.

Your spark.

Your confidence.

Survival mode: the slow erasure of who you are.

But now

I’ve gained weight.

I’m loved gently and right.

I eat.

I rest.

I heal.

My pants are snug.

My ass, deliciously slap-worthy.

My belly, soft and warm.

My boyfriend? He’s got love handles I adore.

I wear my body with pride.

My joy is real.

My zest is new.

I am no longer surviving.

I am living.