The Unendurable Weight

I struggle to stand it, this unendurable weight
it seems to multiply each time we step on the scale.
It is heavy, this steel pound of malformation that inflates
In our stomach, arms, thighs, face
And anywhere else it seems to take place.
I could try to explain, having felt this ball and chain latched to my extremities for a time or two
But what good would it do?
After all, an alcoholic talking to a meth head is still just an addict talking to an addict.
Why the metaphor?
Well, whether we like it, accept it, believe it, want it, or not,
slowly the pressure becomes addictive too.
And it will be an addiction, in our heads at least,
Until the scale reads 100 instead of 102
Until our skin becomes blue with malnutrition, we will not be pleased.
Never will we be happy with our bodies until it is too late.
We will take it to our death bed, and politely decline our last meal