I step on a scale
and the numbers rise and rise and rise
like my marks
in primary, in secondary, in tertiary school.
I wrap a measuring tape
around and around and around my waist
like the borrowed tapis I wore
to a dance performance, to an awards ceremony.
I look in the mirror
and watch my arms and thighs and calves
grow fatter and wider and richer
like my pile of plaques
like my once-starved purse.
When I enter a room
of faces familiarly strange,
they survey me from scalp to sole.
They shake their heads
and say I’ve fallen short
of the scale, of the tape,
of the glass, of the gaze.
This is the one time
I flunked a test.
This is the only time
a high score
has failed me.
This is the first time
I found that
numbers only
bind my infinity
at the waist.
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