This Fat That Hits

Scary Scales

I want to runaway.

From these hours turning me insane. 

Everytime I try to lookaway. 

Never seems to get it straight. 

Whatever opportunities I waste. 

Feeling worthless once again. 

What do I do? What Do I say. 

When everything is to complicate. 

Its my mistake. 

I’m just too late. 

 

Shattered glass. 

Broken dreams. 

My job is to never feel. 

Whatever is good inside of me. 

Beginning to be incomplete. 

Struggling daily with heat. 

Heat that beats. 

Inside the belief. 

Of failed misery. 

 

All I can say is I’m sorry.

It was my fucking tragedy. 

I must have bored you with my story.

What all remains with me. 

Gradually breaking down my own knees. 

So leave me please. 

I’m a wasted piece. 

Anxiously weak. 

Slowly to feel. 

Pain inside the shield. 

Where I wasn’t meant to be. 

Turning out to be nasty. 

 

I wish I didn’t exist. 

Where else I could simply be fit? 

I’m no perfectionist. 

An imperfecting gift.

I need to lose this shit. 

Or else I’ll simply quit. 

Fat hits. 

Loose or quit. 

This fat that hits. 

Totally restrict. 

Starve a bit. 

Loose or quit. 

Or simply exit. 

This fat that hits. 

Bullshit. 

Bloody shit. 

Where else I could simply fit? 

With this fat that hits. 

Written by P.S.

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