Recovery is painful
But my mother’s words are like daggers in my chest

Her dietary verses sound all too familiar
She looks at my body as if it were trash

We view my physique the same way, really
I’m either sick or complete flab

I feel myself slipping into old routine
(Although the scale says nothing different)

I feel her fingers rubbing against my wounds
During my daily weigh-in

It’s difficult to love the skin I’m in
When my mother frowns at a larger pair of pants

I did the math and realized I’m forty pounds above my lightest
I’m sure my mother wouldn’t care if I reached that weight again

Not even in the slightest