Inevitable Disappointment

I wear my hope
in a thin line of black eyeliner
and matte lipstick
applied with careful strokes.
Anything that strays outside the lines
removed,
blotted away.
Delicately,
like it's supposed to be.
honey ginger, perfect plum, rhubarb...
such appetising names, appeasing, cloying
designed to make me somehow
more palatable.

But it makes no difference.

Because here I am,
end of the evening and,
like always,
it made no difference.
It only weighed me down,
the same old me
and those empty calories
I swallowed
settle like cement
into my bones, my hips, my stomach, my thighs...
and I regret
every
single
bite.

And
I wonder,
once again,
why
I
even
bother
to
lift
my
fork
to
my
mouth.