feelingdistant
After bottling up some things for years, I found that just relating with people relieves a ton of the burden. I hope some of you that are struggling out there can relate to my poetry and maybe hurt a little less, too. By the way - I am working on my poetic form, but my main goal is to write feelings from the heart. / Hoping to make the world a better place however I can, / FeelingDistant
No one understands something fully
Until they feel it on their own.
He told me I "could stand to lose 10 pounds"-
Didn't know I've already done that.
I know seeing a fat girl starve herself
Is something worthy of a comedy show.
Maybe I should sell tickets.
I don't know why I expect sympathy.
Yet I try to tell a few,
Because I want someone who knows
And can help me be strong,
Maybe I can strengthen them too!
But the only hands offered to me
Are shallow and ingenuine.
They say it caused my depression,
Or maybe depression caused it,
Tell me to take antidepressants
(Which will make me fat).
I only want to be pretty -
To be able to ice skate,
To ride a bike (and look good),
To wear my favorite dresses
Without looking like someone
You would see in a meme.
Most of all,
I'd like people to stop saying
To get over my rich girl's problem
And just say they can relate.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
They called him "bubbles" when he grew up,
Rolls of fat around his waist.
No one would know from his cancer-ridden body at fifty.
He told me "You'll be that thin in two months"
But I was "porky pig" to him
With added jelly rolls
Though we really did try.
No matter how many awards,
his esophagus was still torn,
Keeping a deep secret.
One day, I saw him go to his house
And two weeks later he was dead.
*I'm going to make you a good athelete
If it's the last thing I do.*
And it was... sort of.
Only tall, thin girls could compete,
the next lady said,
glaring at me disapprovingly,
but no one knew I was dying.
Not even me.
I was still. too. fat.
It was a chilly day
When I threw the long black dress on
And nearly puked at the reflection looking back at me.
By two days after Christmas,
The anniversary of his death,
I could be thin just as he wanted
And fulfill his final wish.
Nothing is ever good enough.
Another year passed,
Filled with everything but carbs,
Proved to be an extraneous variable.
They thought they were helping.
Thought.
I thought about it for awhile
On my extremely long run
Fueled by 800 calories.
I thought about it.
As I stared at the half-digested food
and prepared for the next heave.
Maybe someday I'll think about it
In a skinnier body.
Maybe someday I'll be like him.
Thin.
Dead.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC