kraft by Marissa Corsi (17, Illinois)

[Content Warning: Eating Disorders]

I. 
When I was a kid, a true kid, the kind of kid that wakes with the sun and falls asleep in its warmth by noon, I had  one, singular, astronomically-important problem. 

“No, you cannot have mac and cheese for lunch today. You had it for dinner last night.” 

II. 
When I was in elementary school, ears freshly pierced and teeth wrapped in wire, new glasses perched on an acne prone nose and skinny legs holding up a mess of gangly limbs and energetic zeal, I had two, life-changing,  extraordinarily-important problems. 

“No, you cannot have mac and cheese for lunch today. You had it for dinner last night.” 

“No, you cannot go to the mall for the cinnamon-coated pretzels. I’m not driving you.”

III. 
When I was in middle school, a bright-eyed seventh-grader with frizzy hair and eight hours of sleep, still needing a  baby-sitter because the parents wouldn’t let me near the stove or the thermostat or the front door, I had three,  desperate, groundbreakingly-important problems. 

“No, you cannot have mac and cheese for lunch today. You had it for dinner last night.” 

“No, you cannot go to the mall for the cinnamon-coated pretzels. I’m not driving you.” 

“No, you cannot post a picture of yourself on the Internet.” 

But— 

IV. 
I hear “yes” more often now. They say that it’s a part of your newfound freedom as a teenager, you’ve got a driver’s  license and a bank account and a future made of warm clay. I’m supposed to take that freedom, seize it with both  hands (they tremble when I’m nervous, I was never good at pottery), go out and live. 

Yes, I can eat mac and cheese for lunch today. 

Yes, I can go to the mall for the cinnamon-coated pretzels that keep you from using your right hand to open doors  and touch your face. 

Yes, I can post a picture of myself online. 

V. 
No, I do not eat mac and cheese for lunch today. I don’t eat lunch. I don’t eat breakfast. 

No, I don’t go to the mall for the cinnamon-coated pretzels. The mall is half-empty, the friends are half-empty too. 

Yes, I post a picture of myself online. Yes, I check the comments. Yes, I check the likes. Yes, I check the filter and  the acne-prone nose and the gangly limbs and the frizzy hair and the bags under my eyes because the only thing that  truly changed was the fact that I never sleep anymore. 

VI. 
When I’m gray, the weight of my years hunching me over and teeth not quite right, I will have mac and cheese  every meal, and I will hold in my hand a real picture, a real image of paper and ink, of myself and those I love, and I  will fall asleep in the warmth of the sun.