There’s no freedom in food. I’m locked in to my desires, ripped like a piece of fabric between the cravings and the need for sustenance. Sugar is my mistress, brandishing a black licorice whip, astride a pink cupcake (which was my Poppa’s term of endearment for me, “Cupcake”).
Her slave, I’ve run away many times. I’m always reeled back with a nearly invisible spun sugar tendril, like a sticky string of slime, inescapable.
When I’m away, my body strengthens and blooms, released from the constant burden of carrying her. She does ride me heavily, her fat rolls under my arms, around my waist, between my legs. She flails me with chronic inflammation: bleeding gums, sore feet, aching joints, stuffy nose, and eventually, cancer.
Yet the rigor of living without her. The dryness. The rigidity. The woodiness. Vegetables and meat provide no languorous creamy textures.
As with all things post-cancer, I weigh, on a scale, every day, every mouthful – is it worth it? What do I want? Pleasure, submission, slavery or….?