Dysmorphia For Breakfast

Has the mirror always
looked this bulbous and greasy
and unbecoming?

I pinch the fat on my belly.

I add a new number to the record
of my waist-to-hip ratios, measure how
slim my fingers are, while I shove
them down my throat.

Don't judge me.

I could swear the extra weight
can grow calloused hands
and choke you.

I could swear the scale sneers
at me and mutters under its breath
"stubby legs stubby legs stubby legs".

Don't get me wrong,

I think everybody is beautiful,
everybody is unique,
everybody is exquisite,
everybody is worthy of warmth
and love and affection,

except for me because
I had pancakes for breakfast.