i tell myself pounds will shed like
water:
clear,
smooth,
painless.

no such luck.

i tell myself the scars will come out
pretty:
straight,
silver,
painless.

no such luck.

the shedding of so much self
is like a death,
or grieving for a death:
messy,
spiralling,
non-linear,
and painful.

so too the scars
and burns:
with time they bump
and mound,
grow jagged,
and distort,
monsters grown from wounds
that gaped like mouths
to scream out
"pain"
then sealed themselves in silence
because I could not speak
before or
after.

after.

how often i hoped for the end of
after.

but no such luck.