Everything about me is small
Except my thighs, my stomach and my *******
And I’m one hundred percent okay with that
My thighs, the perfect seat for a friend or a child
So come take a seat and talk for a while
My stomach keeps my hands warm when the rest of my is cold
My best friends know that to be a fact, so now they do the same thing
My *******?
I wish they were smaller
It’s not that I don’t like them, I do
It’s just that having ******* and asthma, kinda makes it hard to breath
They pull on my back, sit like weights when I lay down
I think they’re slowly chocking me, but ya know, that’s what it’s like to breath
But that’s not even the worst part
The worst part is when I’m only fourteen and I’m walking home from the library
I’m wearing jeans, a shirt, and a sweater
At that age my ******* where as big as they are now
And at that age, someone cat called me from their car window driving by
I didn’t see why they would do that at all
I thought that I was a small, young girl who had nothing of value
But when I got home, I noticed how much my chest stood out, even in a large sweater
That day scared me, it cut me for life
I’m too scared to walk down the street, to go out in public, wear shorts, shirts, or anything that doesn’t make my chest look smaller
A year later I was walking home, and it happened again
At that moment I could feel my heart in my throat, puke right behind it
If I could, I'd’ve hidden in a hole right then and there
I got home and for the next hour I was shaking in fear
Fear that I might get mugged, *****, sold, thought a ******* and then *****
I didn’t want any of that
I hear people make comments in the summer when I walk by
“I’d want her to take my picture”
“Look at the sweet thing”
“Woo we girl you go!”
Most were people about five feet away from me
I can’t wear shorts anymore, or short shirts, or low cut tanks, or nice bras
Because all of those things, makes you hungry
And I do not want to be the last supper
I want to live in a world where women don’t have to live in fear
Where we admire each other’s keys because of the new weapon it holds
Where if you have anything above an A cup, get ready to hear men scream out a car window at you
His words trailing you home in an endless stream of fear
I don’t want to live in fear for being a woman
I want to be proud of every single part of me
But I can’t do that when all I am is afraid
Everything about me is small
My heart, my sense of safety, my lack of fear, my tears
And I wish they where all bigger
As big as my wonderful thighs
As big as my warm stomach on a cold winter night
As big as my ******* that want to sit proudly on my chest

Missing in Action.
It’s a term used in wars by officers who don’t want to face the fact you may be dead.
Not just lying in a trench, or bleeding out in a compound, or your brain splattered across the pavement kind of dead.
The kind of missing that makes family and friends cringe fear.
You could be standing in front of the person you once loved, a smile on their face carved there by your gentle hands and kisses and you could be Missing in Action.
Your smiles gone, memories sporadic and missing, You can’t remember a single word of those long walks along the beach, a warm hand holding yours
The kind of Missing in Action in which those closest to you have you sit and talk for an hour.
Each meeting the same, each question of progress answered with the same phrase “I’m working on it”.
They think that’s a good sign, that you really are working on it, that you have a passion in your heart and all you want is to fuel it.
Give it flame and life, feed it till it overtakes your body, mind and soul, let it show the people who once loved you that you’re okay.
But you can’t.
There’s no flame in your heart, no passion, no driving force keeping you alive till the next day.
You’re not Missing in Action, your reason to live is Missing in Action.
You can’t wake up in the morning and drag yourself out of bed, you can only walk as if a ghost guides your feet.
Sometimes you have to hold your breath because everything around you has that sweet flavor of life, a bitter taste that now bleeds failure.
They tell you it’ll be okay, and you want to believe them.
You want to believe them more than the stories your parents told you before you were tucked into bed.
You beg and plead on your knees to the god you stopped believing in, but that’s all you’ve ever done.
Prayed for anything to make this better, and the only thing that you’ve been gifted with is a bottleful of pills and barrel of a gun that’s so cold it burns.
Hold those in your hands, feel the weight they give. It weighs more to you than the amount of your life.
If you’re lucky you can let them go, but it doesn’t mean your problems are magically solved like your fairy godmother who gives you that dress to send you to the ball, all memories of dirt gone off your skin.
No, you’re still going to remember the words, the actions, the hatred that pushed you that far.
You can’t help it!
You’ve always been like this, slowly losing a battle you’re told you can win.
Why should anyone be surprised you’re Missing in Action?
They’ve stood there and watched as you’ve fallen apart, but instead they turn it into a circus side show so they don’t feel the guilt that taints their skin as they pull your fragile strings, unraveling you like that one doll you always kept, so old that it can’t survive another trip in the washer so it looks brand new.
Missing in Action.
Missing in Action.
Missing in Action!
You’ve been Missing in Action for years.
Your family can’t look you in the eye, that mother who held you so dear can even set her hand upon your shoulder and tell you “Everything’s going to be alright sweetheart”.
So I tell myself, drop the gun, let it slip from my fingers and let the warmth replace the biting cold that swallowed me whole.
Family and friends may never be there for me, I’m Missing in Action, so what should I expect?

Amnesia
Empty space
Dear god where have I gone?
Wait, stop, rewind
I don’t remember believing in you, I don’t remember you ever helping me
Do you forget my prayers like I forget the verses of my favorite song, your name uttered every chorus, the search unending
I don’t remember gentle kisses, warm hugs, spoonfuls of cold medicine my throat closing on it’s self because the taste of rotten grapes bleeds down like thick blood
Sticky, unending, nasty, dripping, does it even work
Is there something to give me back my memories I can’t find, will it taste as bitter as the memories, or will it be a sweet relief like water or a spoonful full of sugar
“A spoonful of sugar helps the medi-”
*******!
A spoonful of sugar isn’t going to let anything go down smoother, it’s just a lie to mask the stabbing pain of remembrance that leaks into your mouth and mind, a path you didn’t carve yourself
Those memories, they aren’t good, they aren’t sweet
they drag you through hell and back, the flames licking at your chest until they burn through your flesh to reach that fragile heart sitting in your chest
Your chest
It holds the most weight, they tell you your shoulders hold up the world, the world isn’t as much of a burden as your life is
Those memories forgotten, those remembered, those you live in this moment
Those weigh more than everyone’s expectations and lies told to you so they might sleep better at night
Remember that time you stood on the edge of a hill, sharp metal shrapnel staring back at you unblinking, a cold tiny hand holding yours while you say your last goodbyes
but that’s not what was running through your head, or the words of your scared classmates, no
It was how much the falling, tumbling, scratching, impaling, digging, and breaking would hurt
But you wanted that pain didn’t you?
A small child at the age of 8, ready to accept death, a term you shouldn’t even know
It wasn’t the last time either
You’ve held pills, blades, liquids, anything you could get your hands on
They’ve all weighed down your conscience until you scream in agony, a sound that rips from your throat and leaves a trail of red upon the air
They fall and tumble to the ground, hastily picked up before your parents come home to see them spilled on the worn down blue carpet that covers the bathroom
Wait, stop, rewind
I want amnesia like air, like Jack Daniel's to a drunk, like ******* and **** to a drug addict, to my lungs, thirsting for air because they have enough trouble getting it in the first place
It’s not as if all your screaming helped or anything
So just shove it down my throat, watch me choke, but not like I’m dying, oh no, like I’m craving more and I can’t swallow it fast enough
Give me my amnesia