A backwards obsession.
A closed confession.
Checking the scale too often.
Smirking at the pounds,
I've somehow managed to shed.
Welcoming the protrusion of bone,
Disregarding the tautness of skin.
Compliments stupidly fuel my craze,
But lack thereof builds motivation the same.
Ill reassure you it’s fine,
If you show any concern.
But still watch old clothes grow
drop around my tender ankles
reassuring myself, your opinions don’t exit.