Naked
The first time, I forced myself to look.
8th grade, wet naked self crawling on the counter
Kneeling in front of the small mirror,
Bending underneath the weight of the ceiling
Distorted and pale, having never known the sun
Gaunt and blue, having never known touch without
The pragmatic soap stripping fingers of feeling.
It was horrifying.
I told myself it was because I was all squished up
On top of the counter and under the ceiling.
So I stole my body away to the tall mirror in the back room.
Freezing and paranoid, I forced myself to look.
My whole self cringed at the small curves
That the doctor had called "softness" that comes with "womanhood."
Scrutiny comes with womanhood too.
Flesh softly gliding to meet my wide set hips --
A mark of strength and the potential for healthy childbearing
But for now, merely the 13-year-old nemesis
Barring me from coveted size zero jeans
That my body has never had any business fitting into.
I starved, threw up, ran, and did sit ups until the open sore on my spine bled through my shirts:
I settled for size two.
I no longer fit into those pants, but I still bear a scar on my spine.
I have not gazed on myself much since,
But today I inspect.
No one else will ever react to my body like this.
I am too plain to invoke the unmitigated revulsion in others
That I have for myself.
If I cannot hide, I take comfort being assured of the onlooker's indifference.
In my eyes alone curves twist grotesquely
And imperfections like bright flags
Flying high above feelings of self-worth.
Ironically named love handles, my 21-year-old nemesis
Still pale and wet, no longer blue or gaunt.
"Untouched" has been traded for "spoiled"
A rancid milk jug washed and refilled,
Tainted juice with natural and artificial flavors.
8th grade, wet naked self crawling on the counter
Kneeling in front of the small mirror,
Bending underneath the weight of the ceiling
Distorted and pale, having never known the sun
Gaunt and blue, having never known touch without
The pragmatic soap stripping fingers of feeling.
It was horrifying.
I told myself it was because I was all squished up
On top of the counter and under the ceiling.
So I stole my body away to the tall mirror in the back room.
Freezing and paranoid, I forced myself to look.
My whole self cringed at the small curves
That the doctor had called "softness" that comes with "womanhood."
Scrutiny comes with womanhood too.
Flesh softly gliding to meet my wide set hips --
A mark of strength and the potential for healthy childbearing
But for now, merely the 13-year-old nemesis
Barring me from coveted size zero jeans
That my body has never had any business fitting into.
I starved, threw up, ran, and did sit ups until the open sore on my spine bled through my shirts:
I settled for size two.
I no longer fit into those pants, but I still bear a scar on my spine.
I have not gazed on myself much since,
But today I inspect.
No one else will ever react to my body like this.
I am too plain to invoke the unmitigated revulsion in others
That I have for myself.
If I cannot hide, I take comfort being assured of the onlooker's indifference.
In my eyes alone curves twist grotesquely
And imperfections like bright flags
Flying high above feelings of self-worth.
Ironically named love handles, my 21-year-old nemesis
Still pale and wet, no longer blue or gaunt.
"Untouched" has been traded for "spoiled"
A rancid milk jug washed and refilled,
Tainted juice with natural and artificial flavors.