Whelm

I have always weighed myself. Sometimes in pain and ache. Occasionally in an inundating lust for loss. But most often in disgust. Today I saw the scales tip in favor of a tidy 30 pounds of abhorrence. And I think of how just 30 pounds back I still weighed at least 10 too many. And before that it may have been 5 and occasionally 10 but it has never been a thin, slim zero. The integers have never been positive in my favor. I am negative in self-worth. I am fractions, overwhelmed. 5s over 3s. I am the space that I fill, and it has always been too much, though I am still somehow never quite enough. And I sometimes wonder if that is because I have left my more worthy pieces drowning in porcelain pools and occasionally scattered across untouched plates. I have clawed to the back of my throat searching for the gods that might dwell there, and I have always come up short, retching out demons and hail and plagues. My mouth pours only self-taught lies and acid suicides. And my stomach often growls. Discontent turning of aching hell hounds, attention-starved. And I am scratching the sky for wishing-stars, wanting for hands that might be large enough to hold me so that when I compare them to the mirror, I seem to disappear in contrast. But I only ever find the hands that leave me littered in violence. The ones that welt red and blossom indigo and violet. My skin, constellations with velvet bruises as the always-too-heavy backdrop. More visible than ever. My mind, raw meat. And all of me too little to fill up anyone but myself, all overfilled, too much. Until I spew it from my pits. And the next time my nails touch the wet cave of my mouth, in search of reoccurring dreams, I hope that they whisper a prayer to that devil inside. Come forth and swallow me whole. Let me ache inside you, for once. Me as null. Me as void. Me, disappearing. Me, disappeared. Swallow me whole. Swallow me whole.