The Weight of It All

This morning I faced the cold, cruel glass,

its numbers reflected, a moment to pass.

A brand on my skin, etched deeper than skin,

a metric of doubt where the struggle begins.

Last week’s indulgence now hangs in the air,

a whisper of choices, a weight that feels rare.

I stood on that scale, thoughts racing like fire,

wondering why I can’t shake the desire.

The glint in the light, so harsh and so bright,

a reminder of battles fought under cover of night.