Love is hard work.

Love is hard work.

Con­tent note: talk of self-harm, sex­u­al assault, sui­cide.

I used to be a song­writer. Or at the least, a writer of poems. Then I basi­cal­ly stopped for a long, long time. For some rea­son, though, late­ly I’ve been turn­ing back to poet­ry to express some of my thoughts. So I share this with you all (though it was orig­i­nal­ly meant only for me, but I think maybe I should share more per­son­al things on here that might not be so pol­ished).

I used to pinch my skin all over,
enough to hurt but not scar.
Punch my thighs, wrench bel­ly fat
con­fide to myself, “you’re worth­less.”

My beau­ty was just aver­age,
but my ugly was beyond com­pare.
My suc­cess­es, just pass­able
but my fail­ures all-con­sum­ing.

you’re worth­less”
slump and cry

26 years takes a toll on a girl.

A year ago, I bought pants that fit 1
in a moment of clar­i­ty, a vision of hope.
The fog rolled in, just like always.
“Still worth­less” droned on in a chant.

The weath­er warmed.
I dared to wear a skirt of my own free will 2
It used to mean sell­ing my soul
but when paired with san­dals
even for an hour one evening
I felt like I could almost breathe.

Swel­ter­ing sum­mer, the call of a lake
I pulled on a swim­suit —
my breasts were impres­sive. 3
I wor­ried, remem­ber­ing the time they were not my own. 4
“Worth­less slut” mur­mured in my ears
I cringed, but I wore it any­way.

Fall came. I bought orange nail pol­ish. 5
I nev­er real­ly wore it before.
I stared in won­der at the vibran­cy of my fin­ger­tips,
berat­ed myself for my van­i­ty.
But I kept the pol­ish any­way.

I let my leg hair grow long and soft,
won­der­ing if I could find beau­ty,
if this made me a Real Fem­i­nist now.
I stroked my calves,
an inter­nal wind rustling
and “worth­less” took a breath.
I decid­ed there’s some­thing to both hair & smooth­ness —
the cov­er­ing & uncov­er­ing are both sacred.

I rang in the New Year dream­ing of death 6
while sup­press­ing plan­ning my sui­cide,
while “worth­less” drowned out any hope.

26 years takes a toll on a girl.

A week lat­er, I start­ed wear­ing make­up 7
— any­thing to dis­tract the self-loathing.
My lined eyes widened, glossed lips part­ed:
“I look good” breathed hes­i­tant­ly — a bat­tle cry.

This week, I’ve bro­ken down dai­ly.
This is where the self-harm would begin.

But I’ve start­ed new rit­u­als.

pour oil in bath water
“you’re worth it”
pull razors safe­ly across legs
“you’re worth it”
moist­en my face
“you’re worth it”
dab col­or on skin
“you’re worth it”
pull on pret­ty clothes
“you’re worth it”
drink plen­ty of water
“you’re worth it”
paint col­or on nails
“you’re worth it”
go to bed when I’m tired
“you’re worth it”
eat food that I want
“you’re worth it”
make art when I’m scared
“you’re worth it”
spend time with my friends
“you’re worth it”

worth it
worth it
worth it
my god, am I real­ly worth it?

26 years takes a toll on a girl
and love is hard work.

But that’s okay.
I’m worth it.

Posted in Fat Girl,