Oh
to be the girl in those adverts ,
Light,
skinny,
beautiful
A tragic line
to every gentle rib
I fetishise her fragile fingers
A monstrous beast reflected in the mirror, the worst possibility.

Tis poetic, there she stares
Says her lines; remaining fair,
Into my face, My acting is heavy handed and awkward
She’s a consumable reality,
She’s easy on the eyes
The fragile female,
salvageable.

We are a tragedy of ages, her Juliet, I Faustus
They silently boo while I slop onto the stage
A lazy slob,The **** of society, just don’t eat you fat ****. men like curvy girls We don’t want to see you, You’re so brave!  You’re the problem, it’s not hard hide your mass from view, unkempt, repulsive, vile. hide yourself it offends my sharp eyes.
I open my drooling mouth to speak, but there are chins smothering my mouth
My eyes clouded by greasy cellulite
I don’t want to exist like this.

So just stop eating.


I’d give an arm and a leg,
my pale teeth,
my parasitic possibility
my child

I told them
About the hungry and the barren
being I had become
about the not eating
the crying
the ice coffees
the empty calories I had become

The silence in the room was
Screeching
at me
I didn't know what they would respond with
But worse than anything I considered was
The silence
the calm
they responded with
The noise of my sobs
Too loud in this small sunny, peaceful room
I've now ruined

Four letters won’t define.
Four letters won’t defeat.
Even though they’re forever mine,
Even though they’re not discrete.

Four letters won’t defeat;
No longer are they chains.
Even though they’re not discrete,
I won’t let myself live this way.

No longer are they chains;
They cannot pull me down.
I won’t let myself live this way;
Refusing to sink, refusing to drown.

They cannot pull me down;
These letters, sips of ruined wine.
Refusing to sink, refusing to drown:
Four letters won’t define.

I walk the halls and you all laugh,
You call me fat and laugh behind my back.
But deep inside, I know the reason,
Why I am not like the others.

To the naked eye I am obese,
A fat girl who you can not bare to see.
But deep inside my blood there holds a demon,
One who controls the way you see me.

Doctors call it PCOS ,
A illness I will carry til my death.
So when you look at me,
Don't see the fat ,
Or the girl who you can not bare to see.

See the girl who fought to live,
Who spent that year,
Underneath the hospital sheets,
Just so you could bare to look at me.

My face consumed with  
                acne due to PCOS.
My chubby belly, even though
                I'm trying my best to lose.
My dry hands, that no matter
                how much lotion I put on
                                               won't stay soft.
My frizzy hair that I try
                   my best to tame.
My calves, that are too big to
                     fit into "normal" calf sized
                                                           ­  boots.
My heart that gets hurt time and time
                      again but puts itself back together
                                                        ­                 each time.
My mind that cares too much for the
                       ones who wouldn't do the same for me.
                              
                              ­ I'm trying to love  myself.

I didn’t know I was pregnant. But the baby didn’t stay. Because of my PCOS, my body couldn’t “home” the baby. The doctor says, “Chances of you having children is less than likely than most women.”
2 years later, out of pure luck and not even trying, I conceived. Scared to death every time there was even a small delay of movement. Thoughts, “Oh no, the baby isn’t moving.” “Oh no, I don’t want to lose this baby too.” Nine months go by, I give birth to a beautiful healthy little baby boy.
That baby boy is 6 years old now and his daddy and I want another. It’s been nearly two years of trying. 6 months with medication. Pills after pills, increasing their dosage each month. Adding in another pill which makes me super sick. I ask myself, “Is another baby really worth all of this sickness? All of this exhaustion?” I want to say yes, but I’m struggling. I’m struggling so hard. Because that’s just it. I am so sick, I am so exhausted, but I am so wanting this. I WANT THIS BAD. I just can’t take the heart break month after month.
Seeing pregnancy announcements—one after another makes me envy these women. Some of them even make me angry. I think to myself, “You shouldn’t even be having kids! Why are you able to get pregnant and I’m not?!” HOW IS THIS FREAKING FAIR?!