I’m not sure when
or if
I was
ever taught to love my
body.

I can certainly talk
about the day I learned
to hate it though.
I learned that I was fat
when I was six years old.
I was let in on this
secret
by girls that
will never understand
what it feels
like to take up
too much space.

I’ve been grabbing at
the extra parts of myself
for more than a
fifteen years,
trying to pull them
taut
trying to be small
trying to be soft.

I wish I could
talk to my younger
self and tell her
that we are all
on a planet
that doesn’t even take up
1/1000th of this
Universe.

We are almost
non-existent when
looking at the expanse
of everything that
exists.
I feel relieved for
a second
remembering this
but
I feel bee-stings
when the realistic
overpowers
the optimistic
“sure,
the universe is gigantic
but you
are still large
among the tiny”.

I’ve run into friends
I haven’t seen in
awhile
and
explained my body
to them,
disclaiming my existence.
“I’m trying to
work it off”

I’ve been
apologizing
for my everything
below my neck
for 15 years.

In the past year and
a half,
I gained 50 lbs.
No one told me,
and I held it
like a bubble
in my mouth,
as if it would pop
at any minute
and the world
could be as ashamed
of myself as
I was.

I’m down
20 pounds
and I wish I could
say that I started
doing this for myself.
To be a “better me”,
I didn’t.
Everyone knows
why I started it.

Despite my ever
evolving
state of mind,
I’ve learned self-love
15 years later.

I’m doing better,
I’m existing better,
I’m getting better.