I search for my father inside
this empty hollow of a house
I only meet his eyes through
glossy family portraits
hanging on the walls
on the shadows of my memories.
Darker than the ones I knew
distorting what I thought was real:
a life before divorce.
I think of all the picture frames
that he now has in his new house
displaying a family that is different
than the old one he chose to forget.  

I listen for that old familiar voice
that used to read me bedtime stories
about heroes that defended
things they loved and never left.
Sometimes when I'm lonely
I will playback ancient voicemails
When he told me that he
would be home for dinner.
I would set the table for my father,
it’s a chore I took for granted.
At the time I never knew I would
prefer the china dish-ware, because
it signified something other
than just an empty space.

I grit my teeth at Facebook statuses he makes
talking about his grandchildren that I’m not
related to. My house is no longer a home,
the faucet drips a melancholy rhythm
and the porch light has been out for weeks.
It’s been nine years since our dwelling was adorned
with sparkling Christmas lights but I can’t fix it.
I can’t make it shine again.
Repairing things was what he did best.

Here I am lodged in between the stranger
who says he’s my father and the man he used to be.
I am swirling in the gyre of the past I must hold on to
because if I forget the old him, I’ll forget a piece of me.
The man who constantly attended every
soccer game and honor roll assembly
has become too busy with assembling a double
life to concern himself with mine. I’ll keep him
as I remember tucked inside a golden locket.
A photograph of my father and I before everything
changed when I was still his little girl.

I lumber sluggishly,
dragging the weight of my body.
Every pound is tethered to me,
I can’t escape the heaviness.

I am stuffed into clothes,
encased in figure-hugging fabric
that looks better on the hanger
than my rounded, fleshy torso.

The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket
displaying a number
that I will carry around
shamefully like a scarlet letter.

I count calories like beads on a rosary,
making sure I shrink to conformity
critical of every extra curve
because to love my size is a societal sin.

Airbrushed beauty queens
and slender starlets
wear their size 0 like a badge of honor
in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.

I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit
a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious
of each pound that sticks to their body
instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.

I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips,
to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-***** body
self love is not a one-size-fits-all
and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.