Thick, Thin, Skin

I am sick to death of this earthy lump called me.
Thick thighs and a thick brain shrouded in a thin skin,
A numbskull made numb by numbers in three dimensions.

When life is governed by additions and subtractions,
By submissions and attractions, distractions and permissions,
The same questions consume.

“What is fit?”
“Can I fit it in?” 
“Will I still fit in it?”

It is dawn, and I wait for the weight.
Spaced out, face vacant in anticipation
Will I be a waste of space or a waist of space?

The value of my person settles beneath my feet:
21/05/17, 31-24-36 inches, 8st 9lbs 1oz.
Too much, not enough.

Consumed by the idea of less (which is more),
I am fuelled by denials. No, this cannot be me.
Unsatisfied, I am running on fumes.

Breakfasting is breaking hard and fast rules,
Signalling the hateful slide into another attempt at the compromise
Of which I have repeatedly been proved incapable.

In a life measured in coffee spoons
An instant zero is a perfect ten.
Don’t grumble, hold it in and keep it out.

My head is full of the careful maths of meal mass,
Scribbled additions of scrambled eggs,
Stolen bites in amidst the insanity keep me sane and drive me mad.

254+251+71+502+326=1374,
Equivalent to 174 wrong decisions.
But this lacks accuracy - I never was very scientific.

Some sums are second nature.
238+750= Apples [2x110g] and Oreos [1 pack],
Basic staples of inner turmoil.

120 is P L E N T Y, they say.
1200 is H U N G R Y, I say.
2100 is A N G R Y, let me tell you.

Simple arithmetic taunts the simpleton, so I tell myself, 
“Aim low, slowcoach, you’re slow in the head,
Low carb, no bread; keep it stupid, simple.”

I am a jelly brain, I think.
I am a cake face choking down doubt:
An empty airhead can’t fuel an escape.

Six o’clock, soup for supper.
I stare into the mug, half empty;
Two pleading eyes peer back.

Evening darkens, and the dull throb becomes deafening.
The minutes cling, knuckles whiten,
The sticky fingers of the clock tick towards safety, towards unconsciousness.

“Take a deep breath…
Don’t think about it…
I can’t think straight…”

Something snaps; gingerbread, iced with sweet relief.
The world upends, condenses, ceases to make sense.
Unhinged, the fridge swings open.

In the ruins of today, the fog obscures tomorrow’s bitter aftertaste.
The yawning mouth of the grinning abyss hangs open
And I plummet into the treacle.

I am sick to death of this earthy lump called me.
I weep and I plead, prostrate in front of the tainted altar of a fickle, scaled god,
“I beg you to let me float away, find peace in nothing and join the aurai.”

Dough-eyed, my reflection blinks stupidly back,
Taunting me with the unbearable weight of reality;
I cannot escape this wretchedly thick, painfully thin skin.