Mortal Comfort
Lime, fresh and bright, spritzed over avocado. Green on green, fresh on fresh. Comfort on a salted yellow corn chip. Comfort is the corn chip. It is freshly baked bread, a soft flour tortilla full of inner joy. Cold ice cream on a warm day, or a cool day, or any day. Comfort is colourful sparkling liquid. It is creamy pasta and spicy curry. My comfort is killing me. Gnawing and gnashing, the void hungers. Like craving flames licking at the corners of fragile tissue paper. It feels inevitable that I will become an inferno. My comfort is full and fleeting. My corporeal struggle is punishment manifest. Life slowly traded for a full stomach and short lived solace. I need help. I have had help. Help doesn’t help. How do people find such comfort in things that harm themselves? I know it intimately, yet I do not think I will ever understand. My greatest comfort is my greatest pain.
