Apparently, my body is changing.
Years ago, things I ate disappeared upon final bite, whereas now, the weight of what I eat lingers against particular parts of my body. My eating habits really haven’t changed, but I am unapologetic of what I ingest (my body / my choice) though I am a fairly “healthy” eater.
I crave farmer’s markets and the vegetables they sell with soil still stitched to their rind. I crave quinoa and brown rice and avocado and peanut butter. I yearn for meat sometimes and always bread. I love cake and rainbow cookies and chocolate. I don’t really have restrictions and diet-er is a word I’d never want to label myself, in addition to heterosexual or republican.
I am aware of the bones hidden beneath thick layers of loose skin. I don’t really need them to jut out to remind me they are there.
My memory is ruptured, though I am quite sure there was a time my belly was perfectly flat and I had no cellulite or stretchmarks or what is commonly referred to as a “spare tire”. That time can also be referred to as as years 0 through 11.
Billboards of women reveal hipbones and breasts so perfectly erect and elevated. There are no hangnails or
beauty marks moles or calluses on toes or oversized labia or crooked, coffee-stained teeth or pimples.
We are inundated with smooth, tiny, emaciated, bony, and breathless.
So I hide what I’ve got until I realize I have to show it to let others know what else exists.
One of my breasts is slightly larger or smaller than the other and my toes are long (they have been described by lovers as monkey-like) and
I am a scar covered in body I have many scars and when I smile, some of my teeth are crooked and I don’t have a six-pack or a two-pack or any resemblance of a container of defined belly and I have cellulite behind my thighs and sometimes 1 or 2 hairs grow on my tits and I wonder why they choose that spot and my ears are large and my earlobes are meaty and and and and
I didn’t forget to exercise, I just choose to write poems instead.