after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.

after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting  looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.

after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.

i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.

and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.

because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.

and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.

in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.

if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.

and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.

if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.

when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.

but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?

I tried to drown you from
my thoughts last night.
Me, and a bottle of gin.
I do this every night
until the taste of your love
no longer lingers on my tongue.
I keep doing this.
I keep failing.
And every morning,
You learn to swim.

i don't remember the second name of the girl i first loved.
nor do i remember the colour of her eyes.
i don't remember what it was that made me fall so hard for her,
or what her first words were to me.
i don't remember how she smells or what brand of cigarettes she smoked or how her hair felt beneath my fingertips.
or how her lips tasted in the morning
or what we spent long nights arguing about.
i don't remember these things when i'm surrounded by newer, better people; or when i'm drinking coffee on a Sunday mornings.

but ever so often the world goes quiet and the newer people disappear into the outside world and i remember it all.
i wish i didn't, but i do.

i want you in your purest form.

i want you on the couch in the window on a Sunday afternoon after lunch.
i want you humming along to Norah Jones, stacking pipes and radiating good energy.
i want you playing with my hair, and watching the flutter of my eyelashes.

i want you to kiss me so hard your jaw hardens up and your breathing gets loud.
i want your hands clumsily pulling at my shirt and your heartbeat in your throat.
i want you close enough to hear what you're thinking.

take your time.
take mine.

i want you. nothing else.