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I’ve trashed all my dieting books
one fell swoop, arm swept across the shelf
pages plummeting down into the garbage.
I’m somewhat satisfied by this
ritualistic declaration of change.
Of course it won’t last.
My bulk is explosive
tick-ticking away, the detonator hidden
within the recesses of flesh,
organs tinged rose-pink.
Take a drag and contemplate the exhale,
know it’s all just futile theatrics
that manana, or the next,
one spoonful will be resisted.
Then on, exponentially, to the Nth degree,
a cartoon snowball rolled down a mountainside;
the inevitable splat at the end.