I still struggle with
How loud my food is on my plate.
How it screams at me,
Pokes and prods my squishy parts.
I struggle with
The sweet endearment of my softness.
How he loves my "curves".
My mind screaming FAT.
Trying to destroy the sweet sentiment
That he so freely hands to me.
Like a rose he's specifically plucked for me.
To show me he thinks my "curves"
Are worth the fact that food
Makes me gag when I realize how
Fat I've become, and how
I struggle so badly with the number
On the scale.
I threw the **** thing in the trash.
HA!
Let's see how you torment me now,
When you can't flash the red numbers
In my face.
FAT!
I struggle.
Daily to remember I am not
A number on  a scale.
I am not a size in my jeans.
I struggle
Not to scream at myself,
And starve myself back to "perfect"
Avoiding mirrors like snickers bars.
As if they may crack with my reflection.
At the hideousness of my softness.
Looking down,up next to, around
But never at the woman in the mirror.
At the curve of her waist.
Or the curves in her hips.
As if I dare look, if I dare
Accept that woman in the mirror
Accept the softness of her.
Maybe food wouldn't make me gag.
But I struggle.
I avoid full length photos like,
Maybe if i can't see "HER"
She doesn't exist.

Among the rubble of my life,
I have found bright green vines.
Vines that have slowly kept together
My world by bringing in all of my broken parts.
Who knew something known as a ****.
A nuisance,
Would be my saving grace.
We should question less,
The beauty of something because people say it shouldn’t be so.
The beautiful things in my life,
Are often deemed weeds.