I have never held you,
but at night when I am drifting off -- My arm is wrapped around you, your back pressed to my chest. My lips rest gently against your shoulder as you sleep. The baby is beside you. My hand finds the cup of his thigh. I remember, from watching you rest on the way to the waterfall, that your forehead twitches. His does too. I remember who we were last March. And last July. And seven years ago. You remember who you ran away from in Maine. I am not her. I am not the woman that you didn't say goodbye to. That you didn't text before you disappeared. I am the woman who loves you. Even after all of those question marks. Even after all of these commas. I am older, and wiser, and more patient. I am a lot of things, and become something newer everyday. I am someone that you could be proud of. That he could be proud of. I am a history of hanging on, and sweet, run on, over-exaggerated, poetically justified sentences. I am the one you never see, period.
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I’m “skinny-fat” my best
friend said, tugging at skin stretched taut against her frame. I could tell she believed there was something to grab onto. “She must be crazy.” I thought. I have flab and wrinkles, but most of them I’ve earned by eating really good food and laughing too hard. I’ve never once cried over a slice of pizza. My mother tells me that I am beautiful, but I have her metabolism. That I won’t be able to eat like this forever. I tell her that I’m lucky to have gotten anything from her. My ex used to tell me that I felt like a woman, that my curves wrapped around her like a blanket. That she liked the way they held her against me. Later, when we broke up, She told me to keep the exercise equipment. That I needed it more than she did. That my curves would soon be roundabouts. It amazed me how a blanket became an embarrassment. How my figure became a target. How she could stop loving something she held so tightly the years before. No longer being gazed upon by a forgiving eye, I stopped seeing my reflection through a rose- colored lover’s lens. Under darker scrutiny my body became no longer my own. It went to the magazines, and the movies, the teacher in high school who wrapped his hands around my ribcage, squeezed tightly beneath my breasts and exclaimed, “THIS is your waist.” I let him. I let them all. And here she stands, still mashing her skin out like putty. I'm beside her, fingers shaking, pushing and pulling parts of me that might make “this” look a little better. We will do anything for a photograph, but will do nothing for happiness. By the time my body stretches enough to carry a child I hope that my perspective has changed. I do not want them to -- male, female, or other -- carry the insecurities that I have. I want them to see themselves through the biased eyes of their mother. My body, and their body, her body and your body, Will somebody please tell me what normal looks like, because we are all beautiful and not a single one the same. |
Tennessee Martin
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