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I have met countless women
Who spend time speaking of the stubborn five pounds that keep them from joy.
[I am not exempt]
So many words wasted
on how our bodies "should" appear
As if we are to be viewed through the lens of desire, and nothing more.
How happiness is only around the corner if we are disciplined enough.
**** all these moments of missed pleasure
Spent grappling with the question, "How do I appear more appealing?"
**** the sexist notion that we are to be viewed as objects.
I hope we gain these moments back, unphased and disinterested in the so-called five pounds of unworthiness.
There are lengthy lapses in my writings -
Mostly because my inspiration comes from chaos.
I don't know how to piece words together when content.
I don't think I am meant to write of gratitude and good fortune.
Give me self-destruction, apathy, and rage.
God, anything but tranquility.
I forgot to take the trash out again
and there's recycling to be recycled.
The bathroom mirror needs Windexing,
And there is a thick film of dust accumulating on all things.
Messy is the word I will use when I really mean filthy -
but I cannot muster the energy to clean the space that needs cleaning.

I'm tired of drawing on metaphors to explain how "messy" my mental health is.
I looked downward at the roundedness of my stomach
and flatness of my bottom.
I spent years begging the two to trade places.
I prayed to gods I don't believe in and pleaded to the mirror to make this change,
for the sake of my joy.
For the sake of my sanity.
all the countless hours I spent staring at my reflection
came to nothing.
Joy was elsewhere - and I hadn't left my image-obsessed self to find it.
I'm certain there will always be days of discomfort
wars rarely end without injury.
Sometimes I hold hot tea at the base of my belly
to remind myself that all things deserve warmth.
I am used to love in abundance.
Big and plentiful.
The thought of balance has rarely appealed to me.
I want piercing or nothing at all.
I have always been gluttonous
And I don't imagine that changing.
There were sunflowers and roses
And bites of Sunday morning omelets,
With brief looks of love in between.
But mostly sorrys on Tuesdays,
And tears on Saturdays
And feelings of uncertainty more days than not.
There was love sprinkled between the chaos.
There had to have been.
Otherwise, how am I still writing of this?
How am I still making space for you in a space you no longer belong?
And when I cannot do I write.
I write to the past, present, and future versions of me.
Imparting wisdom that I know I will likely not follow.
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