b.

My mother asks if I eat enough. 
With distaste, she encircles her fingers around my slim wrists,
shaking her head in motherly disapproval. 

But I am full.

I am full of lost aspiration, desires, disappointments,
lost crushes and lost socks,  
judgement and sin and truths and lies,
forgotten appointments and shed dog hair,
and perhaps the stray pizza slice here and there.
I am full of anxieties and headaches. 
When the doctor asks how my blood pressure is doing,
I just tell him to check the front page of the news for his answer. 

My mother asks if I eat enough.
I don’t say anything.

I have had
enough.  

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