Our worth is valued by the weight we weigh,
The flicker of the scale as a femme the antonym of a feather steps on to the steel frame, disclosed without name on to the podium.
Consumed by the number on the screen, we fail to see the figure behind,
The sweet, meek smile and kind disposition hidden by our fixation on fat.
Beauty is measured by BMI, restrained by society’s obsession with small.
We’re defined and rated,
Publicly berated by a soulless number
printed by an unfeeling machine on to the back of our shirt.
Our value is calculated by the lowest denominator,
Who equates plus as a negative,
as a blot on a book of ideals
Of how the perfect woman should look.