Does this suit look tight to you?

I am a professional bulimic.
My briefcase is tattered and reaks of dehydration and dizzy spells.
When I knock on your door to sell you empty stomachs and cigarrettes, my knuckles knock cold through the wood.
My suit is five sizes too big, but if you look at me just right, you’ll realize I’m the one whose five sizes too big.
"Your eyes are so empty, honey."
I fall back into depression, letting waves of blue and gray swallow me.
The waves splash in my eyes, making the green
a dull grey
and changing me completely.

I hesitated to call her number, holding down the reciever everytime I almost finished dialing.
Everything had a pulse in my room – the television, the bedsheets.
Everything but me.
I looked over to my closet where pasta rotted in ziplock bags.
I felt psychotic.
We talked for an hour, and my telemarketer voice droned down the phone into her ear,
telling her the same stuff she had heard for the last 3 years.
"I feel like I’m not here."
"Well, you are here. You’re here."
I sold her my story, and she closed the door, promising she’d keep in touch.
I’m not here.
My eyes are empty and so
is my
head.