That Damn Number

The scale blinked, crooked and unsure,

like a broken signpost in the dark.

My fingers curled tight on the counter edge—

waiting for a number I already knew.

The plastic cracked beneath pale dawn,

a flat beep mocking the silence in the room.

I looked down, lips pressed hard,

the cold weight of that damn number

hanging heavier than the morning air.

A blink, a pause, then the same stubborn light,

refusing to soften or lie.

I stepped off slow,

a failure measured in half pounds and grudges,

a yardstick for battles I’m too tired to win.

It waits.