A state of of confusion grips me as I walk into the bathroom, intending to weigh myself.
What am I doing? Am I really about to weigh myself? That's ridiculous, get a grip, KP.
You're strong, and tough, and you don't need a scale to tell you you're beautiful.
I clench my cold hands into fists, my knuckles turning white.
Turn around, KP. Turn around and walk out that door. You can do this.
I look back at the scale.
I can't do this.
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Colloquialism
PoetryPoems, short stories, prose poetry, vignettes, innermost thoughts, that sort of thing