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The Numbers Game

A poem

By sophie may wangPublished about a year ago 2 min read
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The Numbers Game
Photo by Christopher Jolly on Unsplash

I was eleven years old with pasta on my plate,

And I arranged each buttered piece in rows of eight,

Lining up each edge using the side of my fork,

Never raising the utensil until I was done with my work.

Only the ones leftover that would ruin the symmetry could be consumed.

My mother scolded me, said “stop playing with your food.”

As if it was a game to pass the time on Sunday afternoons,

Shuffling cards with my grandmother or watching cartoons.

Dressing dolls with my sister or practicing mental math on every calorie.

I grabbed my number two pencil and firmly filled in option D.

Balancing equations with dehydration and refusing every snack,

If nature makes me gain a pound, what can I give up to give it back?

For seven years I resisted puberty and fought gravity,

Used a personal punishment system and welcomed depravity.

A bad grade, I don’t eat for a day

(As if I could steal a percentage of my weight for an essay),

A social faux pas, I don’t eat for two

(As if shrinking myself makes others forget — I get a redo),

A night I don’t remember, I don’t eat for three

(As if I could take an inch off my waist and add it to my memory),

For seven years it was a numbers game,

And finding the calculation for a perfect life was the aim.

The second to stop the treadmill, the eight-count of steps back to my dorm tower,

The digits and decimals and songs I was allowed to sing in the shower.

The drinks I poured down my throat, the angles of pure femininity,

The boys I let myself kiss, and the age I’d lose my virginity.

For seven years the punishments and rewards grew,

A skipped breakfast and lunch for a pound or two.

Both equal monsters, working on one team,

Gaining strength, gaining power, disrupting every dream,

Ripping apart my mind and body, stitching me into a rag doll

Until I gave in and let them conquer it all.

For a year I dragged my feet, submissive to their directions,

Gullible to their words, defensive of their motives to others’ interjections.

They convinced me we were the same and we became intertwined,

A love poem for the devils, a success story for none of womankind.

A Stockholm syndrome nobody could see,

For the captor lives inside of me.

A numbers game I now know I was never meant to win,

So I’ll put down my hand, throw the cards in the trash bin,

One day I’ll believe myself when I say that to quit isn’t to fail

When the game is rigged, grading on the opposition’s scale.

I’ll crush the opponent, the only love I’ve ever known

And I’ll take back the control I’ll someday recognize as my own.

fact or fictionsocial commentaryslam poetry
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About the Creator

sophie may wang

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