My life is measured in
calories,
grams of sugar,
pounds of fat.
I poke my arms,
grab my thighs and stomach,
trying to find less of
me than yesterday.
I count the times I
step onto the scale,
do the math down to the
decimal point,
hate myself for gaining,
hate myself for losing.
I want to see hip
bones, collar bones, every bone
jutting out of my body.
I want to be tiny and
breakable, like a little
procealin doll,
pale and painted and
perfect.
I want the number on that
electronic screen to
drop to double digits,
so there's nothing blocking the
view of my
feet on the scale.