Feather-light

< Feather-light >

Every morning, a number presents itself

To me.

A two-digit number,

Down at my feet,

Glaring up at me.

Every day, this number defines me -

It tells me how much lard 

I so disgustingly carry;

As well as how lowly my being is,

To be a monster of such disgust,

And how much of a freak I am,

To be so obsessed with the number

That lays beside my feet every day.

Every day I wish

To step onto the scale, feather-light;

Yet I always seem to forget

How the number I see today

Used to be a number I could only dream of claiming.

Every day, visions of being feather-light

Flood the contents of my daydreams;

But when night falls and the

Waking hours slip by,

I fall into the world of 

Fear-filled nightmares,

Where food and numbers become

My biggest fear,

My biggest enemy.

And when the dusk falls and

The dawn comes,

Another day arrives as

Yet another insurmountable climb.

In harsh times of desolation,

We’re always told to stand strong against

Our fate,

Defy our enemies as we battle 

With determination;

But what can you do 

When you are your own enemy?

How can you fight when

You are engulfed, eaten alive 

By nothing but your very own

Disordered thoughts, and

Rationales of insanity?

And so the dream of

Becoming feather-light remains

Only a dream,

As the lifeless bird flaps

Its weary wings in

The very cage where she 

holds/held herself

Captive;

And all attempts to escape 

Are futile,

For nothing is harder than

Finding the strength to 

Unlock the cage you 

Bolted yourself into,

Where you once thought was 

The most secure place,

That would eventually end up 

Becoming the ground of

Your demise, and lead you

To your death bed.

And all the battered bird can do

Is whimper in her pathetic misery, 

Stranded in the very cage she

Once locked herself into;

Too weak to live,

Yet too alive to die.

And sitting next to her, is

None other than her long-abandoned

Dinner/supper that had gone stale,

That remained untouched despite the

Passing of the days;

As well as the thirty pounds that 

Had fallen off her like a 

Pile of rocks,

Lying miserably and pathetically

In a heap,

With only more stones to come.

Cold and weak,

Her wings too feeble to fly,

All she could wish was

To fly out of her cage,

To fresh air, 

To freedom.

But nothing could be done.

So the bird nestled up

In her cage, on the floor that 

Would become her deathbed;

For that was all that she could do.

Crumbling against herself,

Being her very own enemy,

She could only sigh in regret 

At the food that lay 

Next to her feet.

For it was all too little,

And too late.