Caring and comforting,
talking to me
in her condescending “counselor voice.”
I feel like being left alone.
Mom goads me to the bathroom scale
so she can check.
I submit with fingers
privately pressing
up against the waist-high towel-rack
forcing numbers higher
to get Mom off my back.
She cries helplessly
when I will not taste
the diet birthday cake
she baked special for me.
A halo of fresh strawberries smile amiably
from their spongy, round bed.
I inhale its sweet scent instead.
She must be so jealous now
I’m thinner than her.