fed by the moon by Megan Pitt (16, New Jersey)

[Content warning: eating disorders]

I didn’t give you a second glance the first time you came in. Your hair, so red that it looked as if it had been lit on fire, small beads styled into each curl like embers--I didn’t notice any of it. 

Time. We think we all have it, a lot of it, when really none of us do. My alarm clock ran out of batteries and I began to wonder when the Earth would too. ​

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I debated for this for many nights, entangled in light pink sheets staring out my bedroom window watching the moon move through its eight phases. Seventeen and a high school student, I craved control. You showed me that I didn’t always need to have it. 

I had stopped eating, forfeited my breakfast bagels for a strip of mint gum. I started working everyday, serving hamburgers and lemonades to overweight middle-aged men. That way, I didn’t have time to eat. No time to even think about eating. On my lunch breaks, I would read. 

I begged to have my mind distracted, and Jane Austen relieved me of my pain. 

Pride and Prejudice? That’s a bit deep. You’re a bit young. You had laughed, your voice hoarse as if you had suffered a cold the week before. 

You slid into the booth, taking a seat on the cushions opposite of me. Your eyes, they were two different colors and it fascinated me. One was blue and one was green. You introduced yourself as Eli, a boy who loved baseball and chocolate ice cream. You couldn’t stop laughing; you sounded like pure sunlight. 

No food? Aren’t you starving? Would you mind getting me a hamburger? You asked so many questions so quickly I wondered when you had had the time to take a breath. I surrendered to you, tip-toed away to buy you a $3 double-stacked cheeseburger. When I returned, my copy of Pride and Prejudice was held in between your hands--each vein so visible, your bones in a battle against your skin over who got to be on the outside of your body. Two bites into the burger, you offered me some. I declined, privy to the calorie count of the greasy food. You argued with me, your eyes consumed with worry. Shards of cheese lingered on your lips like sand on a suntanned body. 

Eat. You ripped off a piece of the burger, forcing it into my palm like a birthday present. You shouldn’t be scared to eat. 

As you chewed, I wondered how you knew. How could you tell? How did you know to feed me as if I were a baby and you my guardian? I pondered this, standing up to find a wipe. My hands were grease-covered and slimy, like a toddler who had just finished eating a bowl of spaghetti. 

I turned back, figuring even your spider-like hands got dirty. You were gone. That evening, the moon whispered to me. It was in its second phase, a Waxing Crescent. 

Eat. You shouldn’t be scared to eat. 

That day I had held the moon within my hands, and had been fed by its child. The next morning, I had a breakfast bagel before work.

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