Like a creature with no eyes, the
scale never lies no matter how hard
I pray it’s wrong. Like a curse it says
I weigh more than I should. That
means defeat and I can no longer eat.
I’d fix that damned scale if I could, so it
wouldn’t tell the truth and it would get stuck
at my ideal weight, no matter how fat I got,
but it’s digital and won’t tell any lies, because
it doesn’t have any eyes.
My spirit and stomach cry out, “feed me,
feed me, fill our need, we don’t want to die,”
but I resist and suffer so much I take a bite
from my cheek and I’m surprised by the
delicious taste of my own flesh.
If I eat myself, I’ll never gain any weight.
Dinnertime rolls around and I swear in
despair before hunger drives me insane.
I take a bite of my arm and to my delight,
I taste better than any cow.
I don’t weigh myself as I once did every
time I ate. I’ll never weigh more than I
should, because I’ve eaten my arms
and legs, so I can’t open the refrigerator
door anymore or even get on the scale.
poetry > weird