I am trapped
in the cycle
of grieving the body
of my sixteen-year-old self.

My mind has placed
a limit
on the number
the scale is allowed to show

before the thoughts begin.

Just five pounds.

Lose five pounds,
then you’ll be beautiful.

Everyone tells me
it’s because I’m becoming a woman.

But what does that mean?

Where is the line
between womanhood
and weight?

What makes the softness
I’ve grown into
womanly—

instead of wrong?

I do not feel
like a woman.

Deep down,
I am still
that sixteen-year-old girl,

standing in front of a mirror,
waiting for permission
to love herself.

She still whispers,

Five more pounds.

I don’t hate her for it.

She learned beauty
from a world
that only spoke in numbers.

I am learning
a different language.

One where bodies are not apologies.

One where womanhood
cannot be weighed.