Displaced Hunger

Another day, another battle as you step out of bed

to look down at a self that is lacking, extra flesh

pooling around you to remind you of your flaws.

Even as you pinch yourself—flabby, you cringe—

there's no relief except a painful reckoning

where you don't know if you'll even eat breakfast.

You wish your hands could tear away all the extremes

of your body—the waist, the hips, the thighs, the calves—

and each one has been the subject of your ire for years.

It's just so much easier to hate yourself for not changing

than actually working to make the parts better for the whole.

But it's not just about the skin in all its excess

or even the ways you loathe what you see.

Every extra inch exhausts you, rails at you,

because you weren't always this picture

of the "before" side of the photoshoot.

You remember being better, feeling better,

before you went to cakes and pastries

for some kind of meaning in the void.

Once, there was a time when you smiled

after running a mile or two, and the aches

did not feel like a punishment of some kind.

The one thing that smarts the most is how

your mother says you've never looked better.

You can smell the lie as if it's baking in the oven.

And tonight will be another battle with yourself

as you debate what to cut out of your diet,

the numbers telling you secrets in your ear.

Nobody knows—you won't let them know—

but inside you're wasting away quicker

than if you were to fast for hours and hours.

Just when will enough be sufficient?

Maybe when the mirror finally shows you

what you truly, truly wish to be in all shades.

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