Doctrine of Less

They said I’d survive by removal, that absence was proof of grace. So I learned to vanish in increments, to measure devotion by what I erased. Each morning weighed in whispers, each smile rehearsed for the calm of others. I fed myself permission and called the hunger faith. The glass approves, but my eyes forgot the language of return. This pale reward, a light too thin to warm. They name it recovery, I name it absence refined. I gave them evidence of progress, then buried the truth that disagreed with. They tell me I look restored. How strange, I never recall the funeral. The scale preaches its doctrine, numbers chanting less. I genuflect before precision, a worshipper of subtraction. Each digit gleams like forgiveness sold by the gram. My hands shake like prophets recounting miracles they don’t believe. If this is salvation, why does it ache like vacancy rehearsed? Why does the mirror preach restraint as if restraint were mercy? This pale reward, a scar mistaken for closure. Applause fills the hollow where heartbeat once hid. They say I glow. I say I’ve been scraped clean. They said I seem lighter now. And I am. So light that gravity forgets me.