“Have some chocolate.”
My first instinct is to say yes and
Devour the chocolate like I used to
Devour my insecurities but last
week I stood in front of my mirror
and traced the fat on my hips with
my chipped fingernails and I watched
my mother open up the seams on
my new pair of shorts because I was
too
big
to
fit
in.
Last night I stood in front of my
mirror and read poetry to myself which
used to distract me but my eyes kept
drifting to the non existent gap
between my thighs and I noticed how the
space between my stomach and my jeans
was gone.
maybe it was hiding from me.
“Have some dinner, darling”
my first instinct is to
devour it like I used to stuff my
my insecurities into the back of
my mind,
sorry ma, but why waste time on
food when I have already consumed
and demolished the ability to look
at my own reflection.
Sorry ma, but how do you expect
me to put food in this body that
feels like it’s tearing itself up from
the inside.
Last night I tried to count my ribs
in the mirror but I couldn’t find
them, and I wanted to feel my bones for
once but maybe they were hiding.
Last night I never went to bed and
I watched the sunlight pour in and
illuminate my body, head between my
knees on the bathroom floor and
tears streaming down my face.
I tried looking for my self confidence
but I couldn’t find it and I waited
for happiness but maybe,
maybe she was hiding from me.
I was always terrible at hide and seek.
Depression looked me in the eye
and told me I’d be happy soon.
She said sweetheart, don’t you worry,
you won’t hate yourself for long.
after all,
Dead girls are skinnier.

My teachers told me that I didn’t
need good grades to do well in
life, because my pretty face would
keep me successful enough.
In fifth grade I stood on
stage with a crumpled piece of
paper in my hands, fingers trembling,
The words came out of my mouth
like pieces of shattered glass,
uneven and useless.
They laughed and said baby It
doesn’t matter because you’re going to
be beautiful one day.
In high school, I hid behind confidence and
eyeliner and friends who said they
couldn’t believe I was a student of theater,
because I seemed more like a model.
As if my dream to be on stage did not matter
because my beautiful face and big
***** contributed to my shallow personality
that they knew absolutely nothing about.
My boyfriend told me he didn’t need
to have conversations with me because
my hands were supposed to do all the talking.
People put pretty in numbers, your waist
measurement, the size of your *******, if
you have the right numbers, you’re pretty.
Last summer a celebrity heard me sing and
told me I would do great in the music industry
because I had a pretty face and a narrow waistline.
I guess he forgot about the strings on my guitar
and the songs I carefully crafted, just for him.
My teachers told me that I didn’t
need good grades to do well in
life, because my pretty face would
keep me successful enough.
I don’t want to be pretty, love.
I want to put the stars in the night sky and
paint the earth with the colors of my
voice and stand tall with the sun in my hands.
I don’t want to be just pretty
I want to be pretty smart,
pretty strong,
pretty talented,
pretty kind,
pretty **** amazing.
- Kaya