I’ve got a big hole in my sweet tooth and it’s screaming for EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA.
MORE MORE MORE MORE food babies growing in my belly.
Gravity pulling my skin closer to the floor.
Complaining about getting saggy. I’ve got this body dysmorphic monster living inside of me.
So can I have a sixpack please?
This monster blurred my perspectives and reflections.
Judging my tiny waist and tummy.
And I was fine until about 25 before I got self centred.
About bloated bellies after dinner,
spotty faces after midnight snacks.
Muffintops on top of jeans instead of paper wraps.
Forgetting to shave my legs.
Looking flawless after sex.
My bony, stiff knees.
Callus on my heels.
Warts and hair on my toes.
Sore skin around my nose.
Miles of space between my tits.
Squishy, fleshy, mushy hips.
Stretched out butt crack.
Without a push-up I feel flat.
This everlasting belly pouch.
Armpit fat that sticks out.
Translucent skin in summer and spring.
Stretch marks wrapped around my widest parts.
Being honest to myself is so hard.
When #fitgirl is a thing.
I see big girls, small girls, well built men.
Flat girls, full girls, skinny man.
Stick legs, thigh gaps, grape shaped ass vs.
Full legs, shaped calves, peach rear end.
I compare myself to strangers and of course, my friends.
So when I’ve finally dismantled myself from every limb I regret,
I start seeing lines. Storylines.
Heritage from bodies decades ago.
Handed down inner beauty I’d never seen before.
So let’s toast.
To saggy bottoms.
Better soft buttocks than hard buns.
Cheers, to greasy hair and unshaved legs.
Cheers, to chipped nails and chapped lips.
To broad hips and perky tits.
Arm pit hair and pale white rough skin.
To stretch marks that were part of my fathers height.
To the big feet my mother thinks her uncle gave me.
To the dark hairs on my arms.
Someone’s uneven breasts.
The morning breath.
Soft hairs on my chest.
Toast to putting this monster to rest!
I am the embodiment of our physical heritage.