prison

I have been at war with my body for 14 years--perhaps longer. In an effort to reclaim my body and assert my territory, I have lost myself. My desire to reshape has been solely motivated by a deep hatred of my being that courses through my body. I am not enough. Yet, I am too much. I take up too much space. My stomach is too big. My cheeks are too round. I am too soft--a softness that I cannot be, but I have to. Maybe I am too weak. Maybe I wasn't meant to thrive. Maybe I will die trapped in this paradox. Why did I build this body? 

I assert myself with each bite, with every inaction, every time I choose not to work out. Yet, my thoughts and feelings are already written for me. The pain is laid out. My subconscious rears her head. She is trapped. 

My body is a mistake. Do I want to be positive about it? Do I want to try to convince myself that this challenge ultimately brings meaning to my life? Should I explore fate or destiny? Or do I want to wallow? Will wallowing help me? Or will it inevitably bring me cynicism and to the conclusion that nothing matters so why should I care? 

I don't feel connected to this form. Each bite weighs me, answers to gravity, brings me closer to the Earth. Maybe that's some bullshit, but maybe I should drink the Kool-Aid. Maybe I'm meant to be tethered, maybe a heavy, big body is the only connection I will have in this life. Am I the enemy? Is my body the contagion?

Rejecting capitalist consumption and bodily values doesn't bring me any peace. It doesn't make me feel seen. In fact, it makes me feel more excluded--like I have to forge my own path in order to feel any semblance of belonging. Completely reliant on the norms and opinions of the masses, I'm not strong enough. I'm not a risk-taker. My foot is on the break. 

Deciding how I feel and where to go hurts. 

I'm not smart enough to be this size. 

Do I write down what I eat each day? 

Do I set a weight loss schedule in my bullet journal? 

How often will I work out?

Should I find someone to be accountable to? Or is that one more person to let down? 

I will fail. 

I want freedom and structure. When will I tire of my own bullshit? 

Am I the victim or the perpetrator?

I am hungry now. 

sunday 2:12 am

he looks at me, i assume nothing.

he stares at me again, my tummy flitters. 

i look away.

he waits to walk with me. 

i try to find interesting things to say.

what is funny?

i am home alone.

what r u up to he texts 

no punctuation.

a marriage proposal.

a wedding day to picture.

flaws to be loved

edges to be rounded 

musculature to be traced

sleepy kisses to be had.

i don’t answer. 

i can’t answer.

because when I do,

he will run. 

closings

i want your whisper to be the last thing i hear

your sound will compress air 

pressurize the matter surrounding me 

physical will become electric

then i will leave my body  

my existence reduced to our closing

scripts

barista woman asked

how's your day been

her voice shook

hands trembled 

an innocuous question

a sympathetic response 

a dry mouth 

and darting eyes 

she let her lack of normalcy 

slip

again

she worked so hard to conceal 

her inability to connect

she rehearsed her greetings 

she looked at the weather 

so many hours 

exploded into this 

failed encounter 

it would take months to recover. 

let it enfold you

a stumble, a fall, a shake

clumsy girl, stupid girl, foolish girl

can she hear?

does she know what happened to her?

her cheeks flush

her eyes fill 

she lets it enfold her

she tried

—a quest for zest 

wasn't her fate

burrow

You colonized a piece of my brain. We never met. We share no memories. We've never exchanged fluids. But now, a whiff of NOIR29 makes me nauseous and pulls me beneath the waves of what ifs. 

A writers wife 

Dinner avec nous amis a le Tagine. 

Sweet hearing aid strokes

Laughter when I miss a beat 

Indistinguishable limbs. 

Is that hand mine or yours?

No, it's yours.

And this is mine.

i didn't forget

Did you forget me? 

Did you forget that I was the prettiest girl who liked you back?

Did you forget my lies? 

Did you forget the reality I created for us?

Do you remember what it felt like to be in my bubble?

Do you ever miss it?

Did you ever imagine a future? 

Was it free of a virtual medium?

Did you ever feel like a dick? 

Do you remember when I had my breasts cut off my body and you didn't answer my text?

Were you with her?

Did you forget?

Was it my pessimism that turned you off? 

Or was it my cynicism?

Was it because I didn't want to talk?

Or was it my hearing?

Was it because I was too busy curating a version of perfection for you?

Could you see through my lies?

Was I too fat? 

Should I have showed you my boobs?

Should I have showed you the whole and not just parts?

What's your bubble look like now?

Is your phone still attached to your hip? 

Do you still write about the feelings I gave you?

Do you ever think of me?

Or did you forget?

slipping

Life is composed of open ends, but I feel like it's closing in on me. Somehow, I have turned mine into an ongoing manhunt of myself, in which discomfort and unlikely tragedy chase me throughout all hours of the day. It never catches me, and yet shallow breath catches in my throat, my throat closes, no one will be there to kiss me goodbye. So I weep. I pace the wooden floor. I tear at my own skin like unbalanced kittens on a scratching post.

Wasn't this all suppose to be beautiful. 

Wasn't I suppose to be free.

Didn't I promise myself that I wouldn't get stuck. 

I want to be good at being alone. I want to be the sun. Instead, I hide from myself. I wish I could remember what certainty tastes like. But I am afraid of turning red. Or blue. Or bitter. Really, I am afraid of it all. Of never crawling out of the nightmare. Of dying before I tell the truth. Of considering who I might have been had I not decided I was fated to dissolve without the guiding hands of someone who surely knows better.