numbers

I'm obsessed with the number below my feet. So much so, that I've started to make lists of the the things I eat. And I thought that it would help, but now, there's even more for my brain to count. And if my heart would take the time to talk to me, then maybe the mirror would stop trying to criticize. Maybe then I'd stop crying over the lack of a gap between my thighs. My idea of 'pretty' is everyone, except for me. I see people with rose-colored glasses, every scar and stretch is beautiful because it shows that they've lived. I don't get why this doesn't apply to me—maybe it's because I know where mine are from and what I did to get like this. I don't look like other kids my age, which most would consider a good thing. Say that I'm tall, and mature, and skim past mentioning my weight. But I can hear the words that they're breathing. Itching to get past their lips, maybe I'm paranoid. No one notices the fat, the way I walk like a parade float—my legs mere ropes, tethering the balloon to the ground. I pull my belt until I can't breath, just so that I'm a little less for them to see. The leather chafes against my back, I'm pulling while the fabric just continues to bunch and stack.