By Sam Lauren
It’s scrawled on my hand in blue ink. When I sweat, it smears. But I don’t have to read it to know it. I carry the weight wherever I go. I see the stain when I reach for burgers, cookies, juice. It reminds me that I’m weak.
I hate apples. We are both low-hanging fruit. Round, blushing. Their taste isn’t special. Maybe it used to be, twenty pounds ago. When this was fun and I was eager. I reach for an apple. The blue ink makes me feel a little better, a little worse.
It’s almost satisfying. Tomorrow I’ll scratch 130.
Nearly a poem. Beautiful images. Like the short concise sentences. Thanks.
Thanks so much
This gave me chills