Sticks and Stones

The other day, some skinny little girl who looked like she would fly away in the breeze told me I was fat. I'm not fat. I wear a size 8 and I eat right. But it made me mad. This is how I express my anger.

Your eyes cut over me

Silently judging me in your head.

I can see the thought forming:

"She's. 

So.

Fat."

And as you think it

Your bony fingers

Tug at the hemline of the soft t-shirt

That hangs off your skeletal, emaciated frame.

I roll my own eyes in disgust.

I want you to look at me.

Really look at me.

You see these hips? These breasts?

This stomach, these thighs, these imperfections that you pick out?

These are real.

These are what make me me

What make me a woman.

I would rather have a shirt that stretches across my curves

Than one that hangs off my bones.

I'd rather be comfortable in my minimizer bra

Than look like a prepubescent girl who doesn't need a bra.

I'd rather look like a sexy woman

Than a 12-year-old boy.

Hey, at least I'm healthy.

I've got curves in all the right places

And you're underweight.

And next time you want to judge me for it

Next time you want to think:

"She is so fat"

I'll stare you straight in the eye 

And I won't grace you with a response.

Because I know that I deserve

Better attention

Than that of someone who sees me as a fat girl.

Reviews

[Nicole]

I like this a lot and I love that you are able to accept how you look if that makes sense.