By Alyssa Lane
Analog scales cannot be trusted. The red dial twitches, fickle shifts allowed,
dependent on carpet or uneven grout. I refuse to gain another pound.
Canvas shorts make mockeries of women with thick thighs. They used to not ride up
so high when I would stroll around. I refuse to gain another pound.
Veet is the depilatory cream I smear on my dilapidated legs because smoothness
distracts from the size of my thighs, now cumulus clouds. I refuse to gain another pound.
Pools to fat girls are sets for a feature arcs in My 600 Pound Life, complete with crumbs
stuck in your belly rolls and voyeurs gawking from the crowd. I refuse to gain another pound.
Dressing rooms are all-telling mirrors illuminated by fluorescent self-degradation.
My nakedness, round, triggers the vicious thoughts to sprout. I refuse to gain another pound.
Mailbox full of British chocolate bars is my dad saying I miss you, love you as you are.
Between crumpled wrappers and toffee teeth I shout, “I refuse to gain another pound!”