I feel my collarbone
with both palms,
scrutinize it with skeptical fingers,
but don’t see it.
The mirror’s
also cruel on some days
to my face
just as much. My knees
look hidden under layers of flesh
on other days too, my skin
has a good memory of
past trauma, my mind is
deaf, and I’m left to
swallow hunger and pills.
Can’t you realize
that the weight
I feel pressing on my heart
every second of the day
is twice as painful as
an empty, guilty stomach?
The scale gives me a number,
and I don’t even read it.
