I hate reading about diet attempts
and people pushing half-assed
remedies to fix an already fractured
view of reality that says fat is failure.

"Fat is ugly. Fat is wrong. Rolling
curves on any body screams lazy,
inadequate, unacceptable and
less."

Sometimes that toxic seed of thought
taints the soul resting in my ribcage.
It quakes the muscles entwined masterfully in my bones. It makes me feel hatred. For myself, not others.

It's easier to throw up your dinner than to push up your esteem. Besides, lying on a cold bathroom floor is more refreshing than any gym I've ever encountered.

I'm stronger than a stereotype. I'm stronger than another disorder. I'm stronger than I get credit for and than the people that push me down for who I am.