Poems

I am the consumer of my imperfections. I wonder if the rolls on my neck can be stripped away. I hear cries and regrets rising from my stomach. I see the numbers on the scale climb higher. I am the consumer of my imperfections. I pretend that I am skinny and able to wear clothes that fit me. I feel the tightness of the fabric cinching my frame. I touch and prod my mind, holding it in chains. I worry that it will never be enough for me. I cry and wail until I purge the doubt. I