1239.
Again.
Carefully, one at a time, her callused feet lifted from their perch and pressed softy against the cold tiling of her bathroom floor. A pivot and a step brought her to full light of one of her worse enemies. An arm lifted, the reflection copied. It waved and stopped yet parts of her continued to jiggle despite her seized movements. The limb drops carelessly. A poke now delivered to a belly, stretch marks snaking out from her sides, encasing her like a lover's embrace across her body.
I wish it was an actual lover holding me
More blows to the stomach, as if the abuse of pokes would change it into something desired. Laying her palms flat, fingers wisped up to her chest, running across a plane where she wished bones would show. Her breasts were next to be scrutinized. Stretch marks made a home here too, tattooing her in a story of skin being pulled to capacity. Her eyes took in her reflection and finally ended onto one of the worst offense on her person.
Her hair.
She grabbed the ends, the coarse tight ringlets standing on end as she fumed, asking what style she can possibly do with the mass. Blow drying and straightening took awfully long, and shrinkage was too real for the ever coveted big afro. A sprit of water, well, maybe more than just a sprit, and some nimble fingers quickly pulled and twisted the front bangs of her hair. A pin secured them into place. A pick took care of the rest, fluffing out the little afro to some length.
There, done.
Looking at herself in the mirror again, her eyes flirted with all the problems in her appearance. Round face, round stomach, round thighs, round…well, everything.
A sigh slipped from her pursed lips, a hard feet with lips so large, eyes downcast. Shaking her head familiar words play on repeat- if only, if only, if only.
But she had no times for if onlys, if she stood in her cramped little bathroom staring at herself like usual any longer, she'd be late for work. Plus pebbles started to form over her arms; she was getting cold in her bra and panties.
She turned toward the scale again, those numbers haunting. Maybe if I were to stand on my tip toes…Almost about to slap herself she turned away and headed out the bathroom door. No matter which way she stood on the damn thing, upside down, left right center, cartwheels and handstands, it'd still show the same thing.
Those numbers.
The thing that makes her undesirable.
It crushed her. Each and every morning.
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