If Food Would Help...

Gut-punched, I step in gingerly
feeling the extent of damage
like I inch into a swimming pool.
Plenty bad, embarrassing but manageable.
I sit, wanting to lash out, wanting vengeance
but for what? How could that help?
Established patterns remind me
of solace-seeking in the kitchen and beyond, 
friendly anonymous drive-throughs,
but why? If food would help, maybe,
but I've tested those waters long enough.
I know they compound, don't console.
Instead, I talk to trusted confidants,
allow time to sit here, to absorb and release.
Then I repair damage, remind myself
of facts I knew – know –  resolve to remember
and move on to life worth living,
friends worth trusting, to recovery.