My weight

It's hard to ask if the filthiness grew back on my skin if the disappointment and failure I feel is present on my bones. 

Is that I ask you that because I have this hands that tremble since twelve hours ago when I hear my stomach roar. But my muscles can’t hold a fork without prayer and beg for strength and will. 

I ask you since my eyes are liars when they see through the mirror and I believe that worms come out of my freckle that whisper in my ear.

And jumping the rope is easier than looking for the bones under the skin, of the dead flesh and that fat that is always too much. 

Because if you see it then it shouldn’t be there. And I ask you that as I can’t ask: Do I look as ugly as I feel?

T.A.