December 27, 2011
The red arrow wavers,
Balancing, swaying,
And then it stops.

I see three numbers.
A one, a zero, a two.
My heart drowns like a hopeless sailor at sea.

“Three pounds to go,
Until I see only two numbers.
I want to see only two numbers.”
I see her.
She looks thinner than she did yesterday,
Her skin clinging to her bones
Like a child clings to his mother
At Wal-Mart.
She has beautiful eyes.
Blue, sapphire, gem-like
They sparkle as precious stones
But now they sink into her face.
Violet crescents paint themselves underneath her lids
And she looks tired.
But she always looks tired.
I’m tired of seeing a reflection
That doesn’t look like me.

A reflection of me wouldn’t weigh

I see my thighs.
Well, of course I see my thighs.
Everyone can see my thighs.
China can see my thighs.
Jupiter can see my thighs.
They’re just
She’s got a huge smile.
Wide, hearty, silly
And it’s infectious, too.
I love her smile.
I haven’t seen her smile for weeks.
At lunch,
She buys spaghetti,
And she twirls it around on her fork,
Staring at it with her sapphire eyes.
She doesn’t eat one noodle.
She just pushes it around on her plate.
And then she sighs,
Staring up at the ceiling
With a look that says:
“I want to give up.”
I can’t give up.
I’m three pounds away.

Like musketeers
Like blind mice
Like little pigs
Like wise men.

It’s a magic number.
And maybe,
All I need is a little magic
To become beautiful.
She’s so beautiful.
But not when she’s like this.
She looks fragile, sick, hopeless.
I can’t stand to see her like this.
I tell her:
“You are so perfect,
When you’re healthy.
I loved your rosy cheeks
Your bright smile
Your sapphire eyes.
You’re too skinny now.
I miss the old you;
You were so beautiful.”
I am not beautiful.
Not like this, anyway.
Sticks aren’t beautiful.

For the first time in weeks
I open the fridge
And take out a carton of yogurt.

Strawberry flavored.
I missed this.

You know,
He’s right:
Two digits don’t define beauty.

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