I find myself praying on the greens, purples, oranges, and reds on my plate, hoping that the technicolor will stop me from seeing everything in such ugly hues of grey. Like perhaps if I fill myself with loving and tender nutrition, the knot in my stomach will finally unfurl itself, and I’ll be hungry again. Maybe my hands won’t quake, my lips won’t quiver, swollen with pasts they’ve yet to forget. But my tongue won’t taste, and my mind won’t calm, and here I am, staring at a plate of farm-fresh optimism, watching as it wilts under the weight of the same old ghosts of yesterday and yesteryear.


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