I can’t feel the sharp edges of my hip bones like I could 5 months ago. I can’t feel each individual rib’s indentations and the space between, trapping my breath and sanity. I need my scale.

My face is rounder and every time I exhale I can feel the weight of my stomach. In my stomach. My stomach is actually empty this morning but my intestines are full and instead of sending satiety signals to my brain last night, every night, signals of anxiety and fear spread like wildfire. I need my scale.

I can’t feel my hip bones or my rib cage and my chest tightens. I need my scale.

I can’t breathe. I need my scale.

A, B, C, D, double D; the letters of the bras I own. A for anorexia, B for basic, C for child-bearing, D for distressful. B is for now and it seems so far from A. B feels like D right now and I wish I didn’t come from genetically curvy women everyday my bra wire doesn’t dig into my ribs. I need my scale.

A scale is not a hug but both things keep me feeling equally safe. A cold, hard, unforgiving, emotionless, inanimate object verse a warm embrace I can’t ever seem to get in the way that I need. I need my scale. 

My mom said she didn’t hold me very much when I was a baby because she thought she wasn’t supposed to. She said I cried–no screamed–for three straight months and I probably just wanted to be held, because I still probably just want to be held. I need my scale. 

Sometimes my body didn’t feel like mine. I lost control or gave it up or gave up–I’m not really sure which–

My dad says he doesn’t understand how people can let their bodies go. I need my scale.

Images are twisted and laced with emotional, verbal, and sexual fractures. They are splintered into a million tiny pieces of fragmented memories, once neatly put away, now they’re everywhere. It all turns to dust when I’m an A. I need my scale. I need my scale. I need my scale.

Nothing feels like it’s going to be ok, even when I tell myself; everything is going to be ok. I need my scale.

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