My soul makes up the weighted number on the scale ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Or my wandering mind does ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ All the lives I’ve lived take up space ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The stories I tell stretch my skin ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The lovely words from my mouth fill my lips plump ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And the glorious touches I’ve received under covers make up my thighs ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Warm soup and bread on a cool night, and an ice cream cone on a warm summer night form my stomach ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The miles I’ve walked make my thick ankles ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And between the beautiful embraces, holding books up and lifting spirits ever higher - I don’t know what makes up my arms ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The number on the scale doesn’t take into account my pain, my grief, my triumph, my joy ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ It doesn’t count moments that feel like ecstasy and not worrying about how that donut is going to effect my Jean size ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ That number can go crawl into the darkest pits and the meanest realms because it doesn’t hold me down anymore