after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.

after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting  looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.

after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.

i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.

and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.

because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.

and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.

in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.

if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.

and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.

if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.

when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.

but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I couldn't understand this message.
This strange jumble invented by my relative.
Keep what up?
What was I doing?

Eating.
I was chomping on a dessert that my aunt had prepared tenderly.
I was at peace with the world
but my uncle's comment left me distraught.

End up like my mother?
That's all I've ever wanted.
My beautiful, kind, selfless, assertive mother.
She was clever as a fox and delicate and a pink pedal.
End up generous and strong?
Yes please!

Still,
This man watching me eat,
Says it as if it is something to avoid.
There wasn't a correlation that could be made in my mind.

Years later,
I revisited the scene,
Only to have my heart weep for that small girl.
That tiny, confused child quietly nibbling on her cake.

Her mother also eating the treat,
But a larger helping for a larger woman.
She had always been large,
But in my mind that meant more room
For love and passion and aspiration.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I did grow over time,
As most children do.
My pounds piled on
And my skin stretched to make room for the garden growing inside of me.
My body grew larger.
But so did my honesty, my beauty and love for the world.

Maybe I did keep up eating cake,
And maybe I did grow in size,
But to say that 'I'm just like my mother',
Is the best complement I could receive.

Eyes open
Feet on the floor
Stop to look in the mirror
Step on the scale
Cringe
Brush teeth
Avoid eye contact with
Ugly/*****/worthless/sad/girl
Close the door behind you
T shirt + leggings + converse
Eyes watering
Breakfast//no breakfast//fat//skip it
Keys
Open door
Turn on ignition
And drive away.

This is just getting out the door in the morning. It's getting harder everyday.

I hate the way you hurt my throat, don't leave me.
I hate the way you scar my hands, don't leave me.
I hate the way you make me keep secrets, don't leave me.
I hate when you don't let me go out, don't leave me.
I hate that I can't ever get away from you, don't leave me.

Please, just don't ever leave me.

i was happier a few months ago.
sadder, too, more depressed; but happier
with myself,
with my face,

with my body
(even if i didn't realise it;
"you never know what you have
until it's gone"
is true.
scrawny, underweight body,
sharp cut cheekbones,
jaw practically pushing out of my skin—i miss you guys)

my mornings were dedicated
to porridge
and being on time for college,
and coffee so dark, my friends asked:
"what's the point of using milk?"

the point, my friends, is that
even though i am dark
and bitter,
with a temper so hot
i have to spit it out
(in insults, in graphic descriptions of premeditated ******)
lest it scald my tongue—

there is still some good within me.
not much,
but there it is:
just enough to taste it
if you close off other senses and
focus. really focus.

i think it is about time
i sought out my self-destructive
methods of
happiness
once again.

i am tired
of feeling like my own enemy
when
i am already certain

that the world is out to get me.

When did the numbers become so important?
Why do these inanimate things begin to have so much power?
Constantly scrutinized, and measured by them.
Though they don't show the depth of our character
Or the things that make our hearts glow.
We reach for the right one never knowing what actually is enough.
Constantly measuring, but never enough.
When does it end?