melissaahowells
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Being fat
is being the elephant in the room. Some will always bear you ill will and begrudge you any room or your place. All your padding will never protect you. Words and fists find their mark. Your condition labeled a disgrace. And a lack of character. The angry soup in your stomach is building... an anger that eats. Each morning it repeats. And demands you as its focus. Self-loathing its locus. Plenty of childhood violence on the schoolyard and in my bedroom at night. Some days, I'd get lucky and I'd start the fight. Get the first punch in. I'd make it a rainmaker, the kind that produced tears. Temporarily displacing the other person's confidence. Temporarily allaying my fears (of inadequacy.) But there was always another day, another alley way to navigate. There always is. And fat doesn't melt or go away, even when you 'grow up.' It stays there stuck (in the space between your ears.) It moves malevolently in your dreams. Even when you have a 22 inch waist. Memories take on a life of their own. Nipping at your heels. Bobbing in your mind. Why do beings take pleasure in being unkind? Does it take the momentary spotlight off of them? Make them rise on the teeter totter of comparison? They don't act nor think like me. I would like to know what it would be like to be free of all of them. No, of their idea of me. No, of my idea of myself. Its best to leave the Toxic and their pain far behind. Rinse out the bitter flavor. Delete from memory banks, til gone the angst, no more, never mind. Copyright July 6th, 2012 All Rights Are Reserved By this Author Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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