Jojo's
Firm
Meaty
And
Massive
Jumbo
Jiggles
Appear
Sometimes
On
Nasty
Dances.


January
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*Amphigouri- A verse composition, while apparently coherent, contains no sense or meaning

Jojo-
Young girl, barely out of puberty, beautiful and seductive beyond her age, dresses provocatively with high ****** drive, not shy to *******, usually attract older men.
"Look at those middle aged men drooling over that little jojo!"

Do you ever feel so ugly in your own skin?
Where you pinch and grab at your physical reasons to hate yourself
All the taunts and cruel phrases relive in your jiggles
You fad diet yourself into comfort,
Only to be reminded of your deep scars as you catch a glimpse in the reflection
You strive for societal perfection as you let yourself slip into a cracked version of someone you were
The fear that happiness is gone for good
And this is all that's left

I notice the tiny pulse of frustration in the back of his neck
I notice the way that he sighs and slumps over
I notice how his elbows splay out so his face bobs lightly over his desk
A buoy dancing over a wave
I notice the way he glances at his friends before he answers
I notice the way he shapes his mouth into a grin before he speaks
I notice how his eyes squint a little when he laughs
I notice how they dull when he doesn’t want to listen
I notice how his shoulders hunch when refuses to hear
I notice the boredom in the lines of his back as he considers
I notice the way his leg jiggles as he bounces his foot lightly
The ever-present dichotomy of professionalism fighting immaturity
Of a thirst to learn, fighting against ignorance, justice calling
I notice this inner battle of boyish nonchalance and masculine defensiveness
I notice how his eyes dart lightly over his chosen comrades before he writes again
I notice the way he presses his forehead into his hand
As though he could pull ideas out
And read his thoughts printed back on his palm
I notice the consistent rubbing against his face with his fingers
Phalanges to stimulate the thought process
I notice the hesitation before his pen scratches the page
Piercing the paper with words he must call his own
I notice the claim of responsibility and the toll it takes on his physique
I notice the fatigue of struggling to create
To feel, to create, to feel, to feel
I notice, throughout all the time I’ve been noticing him
He has not noticed me once

I used to love my curves.
My plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest,
My chubby cheeks.
All the curves, stretch marks, and the lumps,
Especially my lumps,
Made me.
And I loved me.

Until I met you.
When we first met, you worshiped my curves.
Kissed on my chest,
Gripped my thighs.
You used to say,
“I love my baby’s fat ***,”
As you would squeeze my thighs
and I would laugh.

But then reality decided;
“Babe you should really workout some”
“*** I really think you should lose some weight”
Or you would talk of other girls,
Thinner girls.
“Country girls are so hot”
“I saw this girl today at work and she was ****.”

So now I’m looking in a mirror.
In my black sports bra
And my mixed match pink underwear.
All I see looking back,
is not
my plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest
Or my chubby cheeks,
Not even my lumps,
Hell, especially my lumps.

I see my belly overflow the hem of my underwear,
I see my ******* resting on my stomach,
I see the extra skin around my neck,
And I notice the way my stomach jiggles when I walk.

The sound of my feet hitting the ground,
The way things vibrate around me when I walk,
My shortness of breath uphill,
And the way my thighs touch each other instead of having that gap.
That cute gap.
That gap that skinny girls have.

But now,
I cover myself more.
The curvy girl who used to wear crop tops confidently,
Now wears a hoodie to hide.
Secretly apologizing to everyone who ever saw her curves.
Her plump hips.
Her thick thighs.
Her ***** chest.
Apologizing to everyone whoever saw,
Her.

And I compare myself to every girl around me.
‘If I had her legs’
‘Her stomach’
‘Her face’
Maybe,
Just maybe,
You would be saying,
“Nerdy girls are hot”
Or bragging to your friends
“I have this girl and she’s so ****”
And maybe,
Just maybe,
You would still be here.

And I would laugh,
Smile,
And blush
And we would be happy.
Together.

But instead,
I’m looking at this mirror,
And all I see
Is a fat girl
Looking back at me.

My lazy eyes lap at your thighs,
their jiggles my kryptonite.
Why lust for skin and bone?
bodacious beauty passes by, unnoticed by the blind.
I see it all,
curves and dimples
marshmallow soft and twice as sweet
call my name and boost my blood!

My stare is caught in your embarrassed eye
As you presume negativity not positive effect
pulling at your dress, hiding all you own.
You are beauty supersized,
as my lazy eyes lap at your thighs.

"Heart Mechanic" said the sign above the door.
In place of a sinking feeling my eyes just move on.
There's an old neon clock on the wall, half burned out.
"Hearty Stout Beer" it tries to say.
And in place of a smirk my eyes just move on.
A small clatter, couple clicks, and a boot stomp beckon
my attention to steel plate door.
Hip first, elbow after, she backs into the room,
wiping grease off her hands before fixing her hair.

"All done!" She says, "finished up quicker than expected."
"oh, really?"
"Yep. Ran into a few problems but everything just seemed to fall into place."
"oh. that's good then."
"You bet. Almost like it wanted to be fixed, ya'know?"
"huh."
"So all that's left," she sighs, "is to put it back!"
"mmm."
"Are you ready?"
"mmhmm."
"Alright, I'll be right back."
She walks back through the steel door, and begins to tinker.
My eyes float around the room once more.
Blue and white tiles hold my feet up, faded with wear,
probably faded since new.
Beside me, a small table laden with well browsed magazines.
"The Beat on Heart Science," says one.
"What regular maintenance can protect you from," I read aloud.
Fluorescent lighting through yellowed plastic guards saturates the walls.
A coffee stained coffee maker stands lonely on the counter,
a small red light beaming from one of its corners.

A boot kicks the door, then the handle jiggles before turning.
She walks into the room with my heart in her hands.
She's smiling.
"Are you ready?" She asks, "this is always my favourite part!"
"i think so."
She reaches into my chest and starts pulling out blood lines,
connecting them to the empty chambers
of my off brand heart.
"There we go! Now, have you ever done this before?"
"no."
"Okay, well I'll help you then. Here, give me your hand."
She takes my hand and puts it on my heart.
It's cold.
"Okay, now together we're going to prime it, okay?"
"alright."
"On three, we're going to gently but firmly squeeze for about one second, then we're going to let go. We'll do this three times and you'll be set, okay?"
"Three times. Got it."
"Alright, one... two... three," we squeeze and I feel
a rush of blood fill one of the chambers. It's warm.
"One... two... three," we squeeze again and my hand slips.
If she wasn't holding it I might have dropped it.
"Head rush, hey?" Her voice is fresh paint.
"Don't worry about it, that happens. Here, two hands now."
We both hold my heart with both hands each,
finger tips touching. Warm. And soft.
"One... two..." She looks at me, she's beautiful. "Three."
Her eyes are small globes, I see in them every place I want to be,
and her lips, a compass rose, a daytime northern star.
"There we go!"
Her words are sunlight at the mouth of a cave.
She tucks the blood lines back into my chest and the heart clicks into place.
"How are you feeling?"
What a question.
"How do I feel? I feel... I feel through a body that couldn't feel anything before you. I feel warm, I feel warmed, I feel like I was a boulder in a glacier, and this fresh blood has thawed me free. I feel like I am cascading down a mountain with no control over speed or aim. I feel like I have no control, I feel like I'm scared, I feel happy though. I feel happy that I feel."
She smiles, West to East, "that's good!"
"I feel!" I can't help but laugh, "I feel like your smile is a bed of coals that..."
"mmhmm?" She's waiting.
"Like your smile is an oasis in..."
"yes?"
"Your smile... is... oh."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"Does everything feel okay?"
"I don't know."
"****, okay, here, let me have another look."

She peeks inside my chest again and puts her ear to it.
She taps my bare heart with naked fingernail and pauses for a moment.
"Oh, shoot. We flooded it."
"yeah?"
"Yeah. It's no big deal, we just need to wait it out now. Should only take a little while."
My focus lands on the clock.
"but it's late. you should be closed."
She walks towards the coffee stained coffee maker and begins to pour.
"I love what I do," she says as she looks back at me, "I won't tell if you won't," and winks.
"alright."
"Want some coffee? It sometimes speeds up this whole thing."
"okay."
She fills another cup and walks back over to me, steam wafting behind her.
Silence.
A slight hum from the clock.
The sound of her blowing at her cup to cool it.
"So," she asks, "what do you think about after having someone else's hands on your heart?"
"umm, i'm not sure."
"I've never had to have it done, myself. I guess I'm just lucky. Do you think about anything?"
"uhh.."
Silence.
A slight hum from the clock.
The sound of her blowing at her cup to cool it.
"i'm thinking..."
She looks up from the paper cup.
"i'm thinking about how this table has four legs, and so do we, and how those legs," i'm an idiot, "..how those legs hold up two magazines, and ours hold up two people." i am an idiot. "and how those magazines were written by people, like us. and yet," hello, my name is help me, i’m an idiot. "and yet the table holds a better conversation than us right now, because i don't know what i'm thinking.”
"what i think," i tell her, "is that i'm an idiot."

She laughs, "Well I don't think you're an idiot, I don't think I ever would have thought of that. And I've even read through those magazines! Trust me, they aren't all that good for conversations."
"really?"
"Yeah, I mean, would you imagine the same person who writes instruction booklets and manuals," she picks up one of the magazines and tosses it down again, "would make for good conversation?"
"I guess not."
"Exactly, who wants everything to be so straightforward and objective? Might as well just be robots!"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"So, whe- wait, did you just laugh?"
"What?"
"Just then, I thought I heard you laugh. You did, didn't you?"
"No? I mean, maybe? I guess?"
"Good," she smiles, "that means it's working."
"Oh, that is good."
"Yep. So, where do you think you're going to take this thing?"
"What?"
"This heart. The one we just fixed. Well, the one that we're still waiting on to work again, but yeah."
"Where am I going to take it?"
"Yeah, like... Do you think you'll take it to Blake's coffee?"
"Down the street?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Um, I guess so. They've got good coffee."
"Do you think you'll maybe take it there tomorrow?"
"I mean, I can, I think."
"Say, around twelve thirty? I think that would be a good time. They pull their muffins out just before then so they'll be really fresh."
"I'll have to try one."
"I'll show you how to pick the best ones, there's a secret trick to it."
"You'll be there?"
"Maybe... I always go there for lunch."
"Mmm, that'll be nice."
"Hey! Look at that!"
"What?" What.
"You just smiled! And not even a little smirk, you really smiled! That's great!"
"Did I? Oh, I guess I did! I am!"
"Look at me again, tell me what you see. I mean, if you want to."
I do, I do, and I do.
"I see... your... face?"
She laughs. "Okay, what else?"
"I see... Wait, does it need to be something I see?"
"Oh, well, I guess not. You can tell me what you think about anything I gue-"
"Your laugh," I say, "is a flickering street light, and I a moth."
"Oh..." She watches me.
"Your breaths, while we held my heart, were slow tides, crawling in and out of my open chest."
She stares.
"And... Your smile..."
She smirks, then smiles.
"Your smile is tomorrow. It is a coffee shop date that I won't stop thinking about."
Silence.

"You know what I think?" She looks down.
"What do you think?"
"I think it worked. It sounds like your heart's working fine."
"I think so too."
"Are you dizzy?"
"No, not really. Am I supposed to be?"
"No, sometimes it happens and I'm not supposed to let anyone drive off if that's the case."
"Oh. I'm not driving."
"Are you being picked up?"
"No, I'm walking. I'm just a few blocks away. It's nothing."
"But it's raining."
"That's okay, I'm looking forward to how it'll feel, I don't know if I've ever really felt it before."
"Well, in that case," she walks around the office and begins turning lights off, "do you want to walk me home? I'm just a few blocks away too, but I hate the rain."
"Absolutely."
"Alright, are you ready?"
"Yes."
We walk out the door into the dark.

It's cold, and wet, and noisy. My feet are damp and the world looks lonely.
It's windy too, it's a wind that hates me. It's trying to push me into a post.
She locks the door behind us.
Steel bits moving into place to keep us out. To keep us outside in this cold.
"Whew!" She pulls up her collar, "it's more windy than I thought!"
"Yeah, it's cold, isn't it?"
"It didn't look this cold from inside either. What do you think? Still want to walk me home?"
"I... It's really dark."
"Oh."
"It's cold too, and windy."
She looks at a puddle.
"It's dark and cold and windy and the world feels lonely and miserable, and I don't know if I've ever felt like this before, but I don't like it for what it seems to be."
Silence.
"...but even though it's dark your voice is sunlight," I grab her hand. "And it might be cold but your hands are warm."
She looks at me again, it's dark but I think she's smiling.
"And I know the wind won't let us keep still but you made my still heart beat again, and even if this world is as lonely as it feels right now you're here and that's enough for me, so yes, I would love to walk you home. I don't know if I've ever wanted anything more."
"Good," she squeezes my hand, "me too."

Give me a man with a beard and tattoos
a passion for books and a love of the blues,
a sharp sense of humour, his outlook carefree
and a belly that jiggles, no six packs for me. 

Give me a man who can't help but sing,
who sees beauty in raindrops and other such things,
one that laughs at my faults and excites at my plans
one that's proud to tell everyone that he's my man.

Then I'll give him a woman that smiles oh so proudly
and proclaims love undying from rooftops, quite loudly
I'd take care of him as he takes care of me
a happier duo you never will see.

Send him my way tightly wrapped in a bow,
I'll handle with care and unwrap nice and slow
this gift from the heavens sent here from above,
then I'll drag him upstairs and near **** him with love.

Wiggly
Giggly
Jiggly  fun

Laugh
Clap
Stomp your feet

Let the giggles take over
Let the wiggles take over
Let the Jiggles take over

Wiggle, giggle, jiggle
Jiggle, giggle, wiggle,

Wiggly
Giggly
Go go go

Jiggle
Giggle
Laugh some more

you walk in
i'm standing there
spritzing lingerie
to make it reek
like high class prostitutes
do after a night
when the cash flow
is non-stop

"Hi how are you today?"
"Grumble, grrrrr, grumble."
"Can I help you find anything?"
"Well, grrrr, I want the bra, arrrggghhh, I've got on. LOOK AT IT!"

i slowly approach,
postponing the inevitable
for as long as possible
as you lift your ancient
once black, now grey, turtleneck
and release an avalanche
of layer after layer of blubber
that jiggles ever so slightly
as it is disturbed by the movement

it is covered in a thick forest
of black hairs and
i swear i see a herd of lice
scurry off as i cautiously
lift my hands to inspect
the tag laying in the depths
of the jungle that lays thick on your back

the moment i make contact
with your skin
it takes all of my willpower
not to pull away in disgust
as my fingers go
for a ride on the slip n' slide that
is your back
it feels as if you have been
bathing in Crisco since
you were just a child

as i finally grasp the
worn and stretched material
and turn it over
i'm not surprised
to find that your bra
feels as if it just went for a swim
in Onondaga Lake
mmm, sweet, sweet radioactive sweat

i fumble around looking for
any indication of a tag
as you begin to tap your
foot with no rhythm at all
and suddenly you exclaim,
"OH, I cut the tag out of this ages ago!"
and storm away back into the mall
throwing bows and ***** looks
as you go

i'm left staring
as my sweat saturated hands
thinking,
"**** Victoria and her secrets."

Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.

Sleeping in throws,
Wrestling in pillows.
This baby is convulsing,
Stuck homeless in cotton rows.

She jiggles tickles,
Crisp, she is fickle.
She tingles the conniption.
Nerves, in axon missiles.

Binky slips, the eyelid's 'clipse,
Her wrist is the pith,
Of nights caption "Mist".

Sleeping babies.
Calm nights hard winds,
As the spring commences,
Graduation of twigs,
To sprigs of life,
To growing thighs,
Cough up the milieu.

Minutia.

The growing immortality.

It’s Sunday morning, 7am. My phone jiggles and a Doja-cat ringtone jars me awake. It’s Kim asking if we want to set out for some frisbee golf - you have to tee-off early on the weekend to avoid the rush. “No, I moan, not today” I say, licking my emery-paper dry lips and trying to focus my eyes on the giant LED numbers of my alarm clock, “Leong and I got shot,” I add for maximum dramatic effect.

Later, about 11am. I’m lead-ball tired and so is Leong. My arm hurts so bad I can hardly lift it. Leong says hers does too. We’re kind of binging “Riverdale” but, in reality, we’re curled up, blanketed, and surrounded by pillows on the living-room sectional couch, napping off and on.

It’s slightly odd, being at home again with my mom, who used to manage everything about me. She knew when I should go to bed and get up, what vegetables and fruit I ate. She knew my teachers, who my friends were, when I had homework due, or needed a dental cleaning, when I had a doctor's appointment (although she really was my doctor), how I was feeling, if I had my period, when I took a bath, when my sheets needed changing - everything.

Now my mom has her brakes on - I can see her sometimes, flexing to comment on something, like our plan to go to the pool party the other night at 11pm, but stopping herself.

I guess I’m a different (university sophomore) me and she’s a different (more hands off) her.

Leong’s very Chinese-respectful around my parents. She calls my mom “mamma” and Step (my stepfather) “baba“ and practically comes to attention whenever they address her.
They’re just parents,” I say, denigratingly, “relax.” She nods, she’s trying.

Early yesterday (Saturday) morning, Leong and I were in the kitchen, at a round table, deep in our kitchen bay-window area, where we’re surrounded by plants and hanging ferns. My mom was making us a pancake and bacon breakfast (yum!), which was lovely, in theory, but Leong and I were badly maimed (hung over) - which I’m willing to bet she guessed. The night before we went to a high school graduation throwdown.

“Do you girls have plans for tomorrow?” My mom asked, as she transferred several pancakes from a frying pan onto a baking sheet in the oven.
“Nothing in particular, why?” I replied, as I looked up to eye-drop my seemingly sandy eyes.
“You’re going overseas in less than two weeks and I’d like to have you two covid boosted before then. You might feel tired or sore the next day,” she said, as she flipped her latest set of four pancakes in the frying pan, “so getting them today would be ideal.”
I look to Leong, to check her reaction and she shrugs with her coffee cup to her lips.
“Ok,” I say, “sure.”
“Leong,” my mom begins, “do you need to check with your parents?”
“Mom!” I almost shout, reacting harshly. I’m hung-over, mercurial, and embarrassed that she’s treating Leong like a child.
“No, Mamma” Leong says, looking at me, frowning - stepping over my outrage, solicitously - both answering the question and calming me down at once.

My mom transfers the latest batch of pancakes to the oven, where there’s now a flat baking pan piled with them. She closes the oven, flicks off the gas burner, picks up a silver tray that was lying on a side table, covered with a kitchen towel, and comes over to us.

She lifts the towel and we see two covid booster syringes and alcohol wipes.
“Now?” I say, slightly alarmed (I’m not a big fan of shots).
She raises one syringe to the light for a brief inspection and taps it twice. She cleanses my right arm with an alcohol wipe, gently pinches an area and injects me with one quick, smooth motion - I hardly feel it. She steps around to Leong, who’s also sleeveless, and repeats the process with the other syringe.

And just like that, we’re all boosted, in less than a minute. She hands us both our updated covid cards and says, "Alexa, announce breakfast is ready.”
Doctor moms can be handy.

He had told me that my body was beautiful...
He said that his favorite part about me was my stomach...
As I sat before him, bare skin, one hand covering my midsection.
He then proceeded to joke about the way my lower stomach 'jiggles'...
As if I wasn't already aware.

And I know he was just trying to encourage "body confidence".
But in my mind I heard the words of ex-boyfriends
And concerned family members echoing his comments.
So, even though he never said it, or even came close...
All I heard was the same thing that had been drilled into my esteem for 19 years;
"Well, maybe if she'd lose a little weight..."

At 13, My grandmother smacked my stomach.
While laughing, she said to me,
"You're getting fat."

As a freshman, my grandfather placed a hand on my shoulder,
Looked at my stomach in disapproval, and said,
"Ky, you know, you're getting pretty big."

I could wear my dad's pants by age 12,
And then grew into my mom's by the time I turned 14.

Somewhere around the time I was 15,
My depression swallowed me, and my waistline grew.
I weighed 185lbs by my 17th birthday.

That was the first time a guy I was talking to,
Pulled up to my house, took one look at me,
Called me a "Pig", and left my sight.

Online, A guy commented on my picture,
"Who let the dogs out?"

I gradually sunk even deeper into depression...
In turn - I had slowly gained more weight...
And took fewer body pictures.

Freshly 18, and I thought I had found love.
I thought the size of my waist was finally overlooked...

But then the man I had almost gave my name for,
Began to tell me to put my clothes on after I showered...
Or after we had ***.
I was 5'9", 215lbs, and had just turned 19 years old.
And when that same man broke my heart...
I was devastated, destroyed,
And had been left feeling unattractive.

I went on a search to be wanted...
But it wasn't until I was finally wanted,
that I realized I didn't want it...
I wanted to be hurt.
I wanted someone I wanted to destroy me.
I needed to feel some sort of pain.
It was all I knew.

So I chased after men that i knew would hurt me,
But I always ran away if it didn't hurt just right,
And then blamed them when I ran, for hurting me.

That was when I smoked crystals...
They made me numb to my emotions,
And in turn, made me lax on my ideals.
Still... Those crystals quickly tore away my weight...
I fell from 215lbs to 150lbs in as few as 5 months;
And convinced myself that my thinner waistline
Is ultimately what had defined my happiness.

I told myself, 'I am finally pretty',
And began to take pictures of my body.
I fed off the flattery on social sites to build my ego.
I had expected to finally stay happy...
I was no longer 'fat' and I had thought,
"I'm finally pretty enough to be loved."

All growing up...
Visiting my grandparents had meant:
Being ashamed of the numbers on the scale.
I'd be reminded of my growing waistline...
Or how pretty I would be if it shrunk.

I just wanted them to say I was pretty enough.
I needed them to, so I could justify my new diet...

While blowing smoke and inhaling diamonds;
It was like I had been breathing out the pounds and ounces in each cloud of smoke -
Or putting sharpened rocks into my nostrils...
Until they fell to my waist and shredded away every inch.

When my grandfather lost his memories,
I made the 3 hours drive to care for my grandparents...
I was feeding my Grandfather,
And I was called on by his wife.

You can imagine my surprise,
When my grandmother snapped my attention from her husband -
Despite Alzheimer's always causing her to forget my name -
She looked into my eyes and said to me:

"Kyla, You need to gain some more weight."

You know...
Now I think I understand
What Melanie Martinez meant,
When she asked the question,

"Is it true that pain is beauty?"

Without colors & contrasts,
Without whispers & softness,

Without smiles & giggles,
Without caring & sensitivity.

Without jiggles & wiggles,
Without feminine beauty.

Without women,

Do you want me as much as I want you?

And I don’t mean in the physical, “I want to ******* way”

I mean in the “I want to hold your hand and fall asleep with you and while you slumber tell you not how beautiful you are to me but how beautiful you are to the world and how you deserve someone much better, fitter, prettier, smarter, better, than me and hope you can hear well in your dreamland and then tell you how I want you to make me feel like the only star in the universe, the one that shines brightest but that will never burn out, to make me feel like the one who deserves everything you tell her in the pitch of the night, but I also want you to tell me these things in the daylight when I can show you those three scars on my arm, when you can see every single blemish that I refuse to cover up on my acne-riddled face, when the cellulite between my thighs and covering my once-thin tummy jiggles while I laugh at the silly jokes you tell me to cover up the fact that we both are terrified at being hurt again and what I want the most is for you to read this terrible poem and tell me I’m not crazy for wanting these things because you want them too" sort of way.

Three-thousand memories ago I once wrote the line, “I’m tragically in love with the idea of you” but I’ve moved past that. I’m at the point where I’m just praying you aren’t in love with an idea of me, because believe me, it’s twisted, it’s warped, it’s a facade. I hope that as soon as you realize I am Jess The Mess you don’t run away screaming, because I sure as hell would.

My thighs have
Known scars  
They have known how to close in fast like a threatened house when thieves are sitting in my bushes waiting for the door to open so they can fire a gun at my esteem  
And take away all the love I have spent endless years collecting for myself; they have known to close and shrink when they are too much
when it seems like no one wants to come in  
But my thighs have also known courage  
My thighs  
Stretch outward
My imagination
Jiggles when I run after my train of thoughts
I  
Have always been the elephant in the dressing room
My thoughts popping out from the sides of the curtains there
Is nowhere to go.  
I look at myself in mirrors that cannot fit my whole body they reflect only what is  
Seen by the naked eye  
On the outside I am fully dressed up for shame
Inside of me is a Greek figure
I  
do not want to tell my story like this.  
I hear: big is beautiful but so is small but so is "normal" I ask them what is
Normal give me two minds that speak of a same definition when  
Have we never been programmed to give the same answers like regurgitating lessons in biology only speaking compliments that sound like cold hard facts  
You are beautiful you look nice you make me look so bad your figure is so curvy and attractive your legs aren't too fat come on why would you buy this if it does not suit you why don't you go to the gym anymore why don't you talk about your weight loss story  
Why don't you figure out a way to love each other outside of way too much flesh way too much bone way too much of  
This.  
I know,  
I know what I am what I am not what I wish to be what I know I should not wish to be but the idea of changing myself runs in my mind more than I run or I grip at my sides at my scars, more than I skip meals I skip a beat at the thought of you seeing me in my underwear I skip through dieting techniques in magazines
And instead  
I flip to the gardening section {IN THIS ISSUE; YOUR OWN VEGETABLE MINI GARDEN}  
I flip my hair to wash my face in the morning
I flip the middle aged man off catcalling me when
I am walking in the streets I flip coins to choose which book I am reading next  
I flip to the next page in my life; yesterday you are no longer needed
I will rest in my bed tonight
Instead I move to the easel and paint myself;
I paint myself as I am; not negative space.
I fill the easel and by the end I have run out of paint but this is what happens when you try to paint a reality things empty out when you try to correct it every time you look in the mirror your heart does not seem to understand that it has run out of blood by the time it has tried to tell your story in the most sugar coated way it can;  
Heart,  
I do not blame you.  
Sometimes I am lost as well  
But in this unwanted balancing act of love and hate my body feels dizzy my consciousness is begging me: "Pamela, stop" I stopped, I listened.  
As I was running on the treadmill as I ran away from the party because there was food as I run past a sign and don't notice it; it was telling me to stop as well.  
Because in our marathon through life in our rush to get to the other side of our mentality that says: "Welcome! You have achieved body positivity and can now be mentally stable"  
We have forgotten there is always a bridge we must cross, one we always try to shortcut our way around and where we end up falling face-first into the water most;  I believe
In the linear motion of time; I wished I knew how to turn back time though and stop myself from being born into a world where I am labelled the second I am pushed out of my mother's body,  But I believe
In the linear motion of time but also in the linear motion of learning how to love this heavy body of mine.  
In the way that I carry its burden on my back I see that there is always something in the equation of body love I have overlooked, something that makes the mathematics of confidence add up
I see that before the negative numbers go in ascending order they stop at   
Zero.  
Before we can go from body hate to body love I had to make one stop at Zero.  
The words blowing through its empty circle there is a neutral place for you before you carry on, a "no man's land" in the battle against the voices in your head, a safe zone from this battle ground.  
  
Zero comes to me when I am shaking from the rain and tells me: "you've come a long way, baby", tells me I do not need to be this or that, that I can just be, in the utmost simplicity.  Tells me I am what I am and that is fine to be.  

Zero: maybe I do not want to be neutral. Maybe I do not want to be zero on the scale in my space, neutral in my life. But I walked and I saw that zero was light and burdenless.  I walk.
I stop.
I may not be home, but the way there isn’t so bad.

2x2
they're flouncing girth
it jiggles less like rocks
the hard barrel
a great and hulking steed
billows on the hillside(
m y lady jouncing like mercury(
f r o m   GODS mouth
)on their withers )
liquid thick as glasss

My insides are broken,
They bleed and they weep,
For I've been unkind,
To this soul that I keep.
I find that I'm ugly,
My insides are thick,
My outside, it jiggles,
So I make myself sick.
This addiction, it started,
On account of a name,
The boys called me "Thunder-thighs"
As a part of a game.
This name, it would scar me,
And darken my heart,
It convinced me of things,
That would rip me apart.
I thought that when empty,
This pain, it would cease,
Yet it only encouraged,
The growth of the beast.
This beast that I speak of,
It lives in my head,
It plays on my fears,
And it wishes me dead.
It screams in the night,
From it's den of deceit,
"You can be lovely,
Just purge what you eat!"
So I bow to my ruler,
At a porcelain thrown,
I flush out the ugly,
And I'm never alone.

Now with each phasing moon,
The pain grows in my chest,
My hair has become brittle,
And I can't seem to rest.
I search in the mirror,
For some noticeable change,
But it only shows failure,
Our mind is deranged.
This reflection I see,
Is fat and so vile,
So I run to my throne,
And puke up more bile.
I want to be pretty,
And I want to be thin,
So nothing will stop me,
This war I will win.
But my bones become weak,
And my skin becomes dry,
I can't seem to breathe easy,
And I can't seem to cry.
I cut into this flesh,
That repulses me so,
I cover with clothing,
So no one will know.
My head spins in the chaos,
As I fall to the floor,
The blackness engulfs me,
As I reach for the door.
I call out for help,
But no one is home,
No one can hear me,
I am alone.

Slowly creeping back is the girl i thought i tossed away long ago
she stares at me through earths lenses
she points out whats wrong whats horrible
thats too fat
look it jiggles too much
you're disgusting
die
i cant handle her anymore
when i said i was done
i meant it
i got help
i locked her away
but the mistake i made
was keeping the key
right next to and open hole
in the door
she probably got her sick
little fingers
through that hole
unlocked herself out
and now shes going through
those horrible memories
and placing them
in front of
my eyes

a soft packet of Marlboro's seems ****
these days,
and can i be the flirting first
to give a **** movie critique?
three black guys,
a white girl -
elephantiasis thoroughly established -
no, not the ******* part, the thing you flinch
as to have said: embraced -
      i'd be called a knife-weaving loner with
that sort of dangle -
    and there's me thinking:
that thing is readied for a Serena Williams'
buttocks - it's doubly pelvic in terms
of gravity, how many more inches
do you actually need to bypass those
*******? 12" ain't enough!
              plus, given the size of the actual
thing, how much of it will you actually
get soaked in phlegm while she ***** it
off into an ice-cream? i'd say a third if
not a fifth of it - the rest is kinda lost...
you need an African girl with enough
**** to tickle the tip of that skyscraper you'll
never get to build.
hard looking at the truth, isn't it?
you sorta hope it were a Pythagorean sample
of lecture notes on a beach on Rhodes...
      **** me: and they told me i was naive
but there's still
that:
and all that Darwinism and white self-loathing
to eradicate colonialism -
those 12" chocolate extensions were there
with fat enough bums... 'cos' you had to
bypass enough third-party jiggles
to get to the opportune part of insemination -
white girls and their ******* idea
of a shortcut... well done...
if you have an *** that's bulging enough
to be called the double pelvic or what
geneticists call the double-helix:
then i'd mind singing: and i am a tripod too!
believe me: in 20 years time Kubrick will
not be relevant... **** on the other hand?
next to the apples at a market stall.
               and i am holding a packet of
Marlboro's in my hand, a soft-packet,
sexier than Kenyan Camels sold without
filters (in a soft packet also) -
                  i'm still wondering about the white
girls' shortcut... a ******* tried to make me
strangle her neck by saying: all the black
boys have it... inch for inch...
               i told her: i bought an hour of gymnastic flex,
not your opinions.
         then in dodo the theta goes missing
when everything goes albino crazy when stated
in: discotheque -      techno oceanic -
                         tec (as: shortened) -
odd, isn't it: we are perpetually stating the halves -
never really the blunt obvious,
      charismatic loss of dynamo of language -
oh i'm not jealous, i'm thinking of all the things
i don't have to buy: perfumes, jockstraps,
     daffodils, we're-strangers-type-of-dinner-dates:
        let's freshen things up: escapades Francais -
the new risque - pervert dogs ******* strangers'
legs in the escalator sort of: till death do us part.
                       i just have 12" of concept
in a Nigerian buttocks to define gravitational
                                            pistons when
           that excess is matched with a buttock that's
twice an armchair: and only half to the said, ****:
or what i like to call the onomatopoeia filter:
         it doesn't sound like i'm knocking on a door
and the subsequent opening -
it sounds like i'm knocking on a crocodile's cranium
                and the ****** thing never shuts up!

.
Happy Christmas!
My love is a long isthmus,
Separated by fleshy mounds,
On its way to your jaunty seas,
My jingles, tingle, jug your jiggles,
My candy cane wants lips *******,
Please, little red dressed helper,
Santa needs your jumpers
Teared off and flung,
Into a sleigh ride
Of slides an fun.

Easing from the center of a
Six foot ever-green hedge
As if thru an invisible doorway
From Zombie-land
Head first
Eyes like headlights
With high-beams on
Swiveling on too thin neck
Checking the scene
For a victim...
Emaciated shoulders
Pointy knee
Stretches
Ragged pant legs and
Ashy ankles
Flopping shoes… with
Empty lace-holes
Until finally
An entire man
Or what used to be one
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Just trying to get to work
But it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
At five a.m.
In the city

≈

Police car cruising
The complex parking lot
Spotlight shines
But I don’t mind
Check me out Mr. Officer…
If you need to …
Cuz I’m not the one you are looking for
So he passes… as
Dusty Perpetrator
Rises
From inside
The dumpster across the way…
Scabby,
Crafty face
Uncomfortably resting under
Debris filled hair
Turns on
Boney neck… and
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Casually shut the door… and
Engage the locks
Cuz it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
When the door **** jiggles
In the city

The first of any month

is strange like

the peeling of a

hard boiled egg

where the sharp shards

if shell get all

stuck up

in cold fingernails

and the rubbery white

sphere of molded egg

jiggles and slips

plopping hard

on the white tiled floor

but it never breaks

just keeps it's shape

staying whole and

rolling off past the kitchen

and onto the warm

living room rug

where it stays

stuck and melting

becoming one with

the ruby red color

like a round white eye

glaring up at the world

unable to blink.

This pounding is much too harsh. Always aching with the drum of my truth as it slaps me in the face. My fat jiggles in a horrendous fashion, I don't move with grace, but thunder. I blunder, wishing to keep up with your pace. I want the stride of your beautiful. I want to stay youthful, but my metabolism is slacking and I hear the snickers, so I'll keep my eyes glued down. At least I keep score; I see days I don't eat, versus days of defeat, I'm a fat-*** puppy always sniffing for treats. And I get sick of the stale lines telling me I'm beautiful. Because only awfully gorgeous people are the ones to speak, and they tell me to gain more? It's not a chore, I'm not resisting when I secretly want to snack. NO, I just forget for a moment and shove some in like a zombie extra-diseased as fat.
I agree, I'm pathetically weak, but people don't understand that it hurts more to know that my power of will is low than to see this mass of mountainous freak.

Money O my honey
Makes You a minister
Money O my Honey
Makes pauper sinister!
Money brings sweet nothings
Maiden Damsel loves and sings
World to feet one blink it brings
When gone Ay You ****** Jinx!
Money..O my Honey
Makes and Mars so many things!
Pastures passed are to the hind
Memories lovely to the wind
Jiggles Pebbles  Mind is Lake
Joy and Sorrow sweep ashore and creak break
MOney..O my Honey..
Will do undo anything
Money O my honey
Makes beggar or a King!

A little egg begins to roll
Her light yellow body jiggles above pink cushions
Like a volcano, her form is on the verge of eruption
Our poor little egg closes her eyes and realizes a sense of primal futility
Molten tears burn her plump cheeks as they fall
They burn with frustration’s poisonous touch

Outside, the sky hums its smooth, silky night
In stark contrast, of course, to our poor little egg

Her screams seize attention and demand nourishment,
be it edible or otherwise
Her feathery hair, shining blackish brown, is nowhere near as lengthy as it is now
Her tiny little feet have grown to a size 8 and a half but are still adorable to me
Her ocular chocolates, orbs of pure warmth, look straight into the camera with matured defiance

A look my girlfriend hypnotizes me with even today

These ******* are not mine
They swell and sag.
And the thighs
They, too, weigh heavy
Spreading out across my sheets
Twice as wide as they seem
Pale and pallid -
Loose jiggles run amok.
These arms are not mine
Shapeless chunks with no chisel
Thick and stocky, like sausages.
I don’t know their touch.
I don’t know myself.