I already know the Omron HBF-510 only
Works barefoot as I begin unwrapping.
Enduring the slow unlacing of boots, unraveling of
Socks from raw feet. Bare toes curdling
Against the sudden coolness of tile floor
On my weekly pilgrimage.

Heels on the iron rings, calibrating
Before forcing an electrical current
To explore unprocessed flesh. Surging
Into bone, muscle, fat. Digesting my levels.
Of resistance. I thank God that the pulse
Fizzles before reaching inside my skull.

The shrill beeping of a microwave dinner
Ready for consumption is released into the air
Thin fingers scribbling down the menu of my flesh
Onto a small, white pad I’ll never see. I lost
My right to my numbers long ago. Punishment
For getting lost inside them, finding home
In the palatable line between quantitative measures and
Qualitative me.

The white paper’s results are written in the gums
Of my grinning dietician. I gained,
Again. Another grotesque concave refilled
With ever desirable flesh of life, healthy beauty. I am
Pleased. I have been told that empty is no way to live.

I repeat.
As meal plan increases are written in ink, while
My weight is passed between PHD and Parent.
I am pleased.
Counting the goose bumps
Bubbling forth from my heated skin.
Feasting on the number.