more than a number

one day you’re 115, the next you’re 110.

you know you shouldn’t desire to weigh any lower.

before you know it,

you weigh 106.

the world starts to spin on its axis again.

but little do you know,

each day fluctuates pound by pound.

soon you’re back at 110.

your lowest low feels like your highest high,

it’s time to start over again.

unless your ribs are perfectly defined,

is there really a point in living?

how do I wear a suit like this?

how do I walk around in a bra?

much less, how do I stand with my body on display like a sculpture

only to be analyzed with every curve and line?

how do I know you’ll see me

for more than a number?

for more than the grasp of my skin?

how do I know you won’t judge me

and forget the beauty inside?

how do I remember that I

am worth more than number?

when inside,

it feels that it’s all that’s left.

an unattainable number

and an unfit body on display

and a mind that reminds me

I’m not worth more

every single damn day.




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