You tell me repeatedly that I am wasting away,
that my arms are too slim,
my waist too cinched,
and my chest too boney,
but the only thing I hear
is your insecurity making me its mirror,
and in actuality
I have never been more proud of my progress.
Instead of concern for my well-being,
all I feel when that sentence slips from your lips
into the stale air that creeps into my ears
is a knife in my gut.

I am not wasting away,
I have already wasted.

I wasted away my breathlessness when he told me he cheated on me.
I wasted away the utopian idea of who I ached to be
and what I strived to look like.
I wasted away the pressures I gave into
when he wanted to force himself on me.
I wasted away the insecurities and trust issues I harbored for five years.
I wasted away his manipulations,
his deceit,
his pathological lies,
his slander for my name,
and the guilt I felt for cutting him out
and clawing my way back in.
I wasted away the anger and depression that almost consumed me.
I wasted away my lack of knowledge toward myself.
I wasted away my blank path,
and I wasted away my restlessness for the next chapter,
because I am the next chapter.

So, the next time you feel the need to tell me that I am wasting away,
The next time you think it's okay to say something like that to me,
I want you to not look at me,
but see me.
I want you to feel the curve on my hips and the stretch marks on my thighs
that I am okay with having.
I want you to look into my eyes
and see the fire I reignited in my soul
to warm the blood that pumps through these deep vessels
which carry each piece of the shattered self that I put back together
like the mouth of the river that flows straight into the heart of the ocean.

No, I am not wasting away.
I’m not wasting another day.