I was eight years old
When you sat me down.
You wanted me pretty enough to be sold.
Not fat like a clown.
"Just control your eating."
I never took you seriously.
Years of not competing.
My silhouette anything but lovely.
Until my image digusted myself.
And your words echoed in my mind.
So I began carving into something for a shelf.
Knowing the road wont be kind.
Yet, mother, you still aren't happy.
With what I've become.
Even after following your advice literally.
"Its too light to weigh forty-one"
What will it take to satisfy you?
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 10:52 AM UTC
I was eight years old
When you sat me down.
You wanted me pretty enough to be sold.
Not fat like a clown.
"Just control your eating."
I never took you seriously.
Years of not competing.
My silhouette anything but lovely.
Until my image digusted myself.
And your words echoed in my mind.
So I began carving into something for a shelf.
Knowing the road wont be kind.
Yet, mother, you still aren't happy.
With what I've become.
Even after following your advice literally.
"Its too light to weigh forty-one"
What will it take to satisfy you?
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