Body Talk

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. ​