I’ve always struggled
with my weight.
There is no happy medium
Only the boring middle
And even then I’m only the mean of the abstract BMI,
Not actually the sum of the whole of my female friends divided by the number
Which is eight, if you’re interested.
And I am far from a size 8
And sometimes I struggle to stuff my body into the clothes that are my size.
I am aware of my faults
I joke about them as if I am not effected by their existence every day.
I pretend as though I see the humour in my odd compulsions.
When I joke about my weight,
I do it so that no one else can do it first.
It is second nature to me to send myself up
to pretend as though I see myself as perfect
and am making fun of myself ironically.
I make light of my eating habits.
I don’t know how to explain that my funny food habits are the culmination
Of years of misunderstanding my relationship with food.
I eat bread as if there is soon to be a flour shortage
and I want to go out with the taste still on my lips.
I don’t know how to eat in small amounts
because I eat for the flavours beyond the point of being full.
No one is more unhappy with my eating than me.
I am the one who has to watch myself shoving loaf after loaf into my overstuffed mouth
Feeling my stomach press against the waistband of my jeans
And incapable of stopping it.
My mouth craves the food
The desire to taste is all encompassing
And I cannot take control.