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. Iām not wasting another day.