lemonade

Crushed bones taste like sugar, sometimes. Taste like guilt, like happiness, like the feeling of letting go -- but just a bit better. It tastes like success and control, and as you stir yourself into the glass, you can feel yourself getting just a bit lighter. Just that bit more perfect. The lemon beside you slices easily into quarters; you take care to squeeze out each and every drop, licking the taste from your fingers. The ice cubes release themselves from the tray with a distinct crack; you drop them one by one into the concoction, forcing the liquid to the brim as high as possible. Make the illusion of being full. And it's your lips against the edge then, savoring the false sweetness with your tongue -- and you're chugging down the liquid, throat swallowing, some of it managing to spill and trickle down your neck.

You're crumbling. You're crumbling and you know this. So fully aware with the hunger and cravings; so undeniably awake with the stomach pain. But there are twenty more glasses to go. Zero calories in each, a number to check, and vitamins to keep yourself going. You destroy more of yourself when you're up and moving, after all. There's no time for this. A sigh, the rush of the faucet, and another lemon in your hands, soft and ripened for the task.

This is lemonade. You are very good at pretending.