The End of The World Is Smaller Than You Think

The end of the world is smaller than you think.
It gropes on shiny days into the batter
calling the creeper towards death
on innocent afternoons.
I ate a tornado for lunch today.
I vomited avalanches into the bowl.
There are universal floods bursting
in every pink pill
and homely portal of potato
with eyes of storms lurking
like leftovers and teabags
steaming their wicked weather into unhealthy guts.
Aromas portend whole world catastrophe
leaking out of sealed pots and bakery chimneys.
I am knee deep in blizzards at breakfast,
cornered by hailstorms of popsicles, meteors, and sugar cubes.
Cruel, wicked joke of a globe.
Consumed by carrots
and a combination of carbohydrates.
Chocolate chip cookies are to blame for disaster
crushing me like a house
under the thumb of an earthquake.
I do not pretend to know aftermath.
I only shield my eyes
from nuclear bomb kitchens
from something out of horror movies
from hurricanes bubbling on the coils.
Armaggedon occurs three times a day.
Plus two snacks.
The Red Cross is not responding to these sorts of emergencies.
~~~~~
So I wrote this poem about six years ago when I was, obviously, immersed in my eating disorder. The reason I resurrect it now? I realize how I haven't really come that far from this cataclysmic attitude towards food. The whole process of selecting food and eating it can still be painful and overwhelming for me psychologically. I can still be racked with guilt for indulging. I still equate victory with restriction. Behaviors are so much easier for me to change than thought patterns. For my physical health, this is very, very lucky. But mentally I am just stuck. I am sure that I am not alone in having a dysfunctional relationship with food. Has any woman grown up unscathed? I want to set Livy free from it all. It is not innately female to hates one's body. There is an alternative way to be. How can break the cycle when I am still not completely healthy in my own mind?