There it sits, taunting. Just this once, it beckons. It’s for your own good, it calls. Gently, quietly, whispering words of encouragement; if the number is too high, it’s ok. You can lose it in no time. You have to find out. 

My dreams consist of crying  uncontrollable balling-the kind where it’s quite impossible to catch a breath- because that’s the only place I can have such outrageous emotions, for no reason. I wake up annoyed; why can’t I stop crying in my sleep? It must be because I’ve gained too much weight. You cannot be loved if you are too heavy.

It feels selfish to keep singing this boring song. It is selfish. I should have made better attempts at leaving all of this in the past. It’s selfishly comforting. I hate the scale, but I love the scale. I am not a number, but the number gives me power. I am not a Body Mass Index percentage, but the percentage gives me focus and reassurance.  Not knowing is probably for the best, but it’s torture in a masochist way that sometimes I believe I need to breath.

 

 

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