It takes about three seconds for the number of my weight to appear on the scales. My entire evening depending on the red digits flashing in front of me.
The doctors call this the weighing room, simple as that. I like to think of it as a place that constantly shifts between heaven and hell. Good and bad news. I shouldn’t really be in here, breaking the strict clinic rules. But I just can’t contain myself, I can’t wait. I need to know because no one is telling me.
I remember those days you were here and none of this mattered.
In less than one second, you told me I was beautiful and I believed you. I found the consolation I needed in your eyes, the way they would rest on my face, my body. Now I hold on to my nightly weighing sessions instead of holding on to you. I don’t bother to do my hair, my lipstick makes me feel guilty. You owned these lips, you used to say. Baby, you owned all of me.
My feet touch the cold surface of the scales as I slip out of my shoes. No need to turn on the light. The red number will find its way to my eyes, like a ruby ghost chasing me across the dark room.
I’m not sure who I am anymore. It was so easy to let you create me. Now I have no one to listen to anymore. I can’t even hear my own voice. My reflection stares back at me as if it doesn’t understand. No one here to tear me down. Then build me up again. Me inside this clinic, I’m nothing but a broken foundation on safe ground.
As three seconds pass by, I wait in terror and wonder. Do you ever think of me?
Because I do. Things are so empty now you’re not here. They were empty before as well, you just made me forget. Now you’re gone, you thought you were the only one running, but I was the ultimate fraud, running from myself.
I close my eyes, not wanting to see. I want to flee this room, my responsibilities. I want to fall so you can pick me up again. Watching you leave was a good thing, because you were taking all of me. But it was easier, so much easier. I could fool myself in your company, making myself believe I wasn’t lonely. Now I’m facing the facts, reality, me. It’s scary, because I need to make decisions I never thought I could make.
How does the work of art shape itself?
I step off the scales, the palm of my hand firmly pressed against my eyelids. This doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You told me I was beautiful, but I have never felt uglier. The scales might tell me I’m skinny but I’ve never felt more dissatisfied.
You were never the artist who created me. You are the sinner who mixed up the harmony in my colours. You chose a crooked composition, my true face hidden behind a curtain of obscure. Kept me hidden so the world couldn’t see.
I might not know who I am. I might not be a finished piece of art. But one day, people will line up in the museum, all eyes on me and none on you. I shouldn’t have needed you. You shouldn’t have tried to change who I am inside, just because I was blind.
I miss you. Miss myself too. Wish we could learn to build up ourselves, without anyone’s help. I believe, I might be on my way. No ghost hunting me down these hospital corridors tonight. No number to keep me from what truly matters in life.
Think of me. I miss you. No long wonder if you do too. Hand me the brushes, the paint, the glue. I need to let go of you.