B.M.I.

A little girl

told she’s obese.

“It’s her B.M.I.

She’s out of range for her age,

too heavy for her height,

too thick for society.”

But she’s only 8 years old,

still innocent in every cell,

her purity is dimming,

because now there’s something

wrong with her.

“Stretch marks aren’t normal,

especially for a child.

They’re only for women

that spew out a child.”

Her light flickers for a beat,

tracing the purple lines

webbed across her thighs

and bottom.

I guess they aren’t normal for a child,

she thought,

just like my B.M.I.

The veil is pulled off,

she sees other girls,

friends,

classmates,

and cousins of all ages

wondering,

they all must have normal B.M.I’s

Their legs so thin

like fallen twigs of a tree.

Knees, oh so noticeable,

and ankles incredibly defined.

Why don’t I have ankles?

she asked herself one day.

What are cankles?

That’s all I hear,

cankles, cankles, cankles.

Each doctor is the same.

Obsessive about her weight,

pointing at a chart with,

“she’s here when she’s supposed to be there.”

She learns to hate the word,

its sound,

its image.

Why the heck is it so important…

This blasted B.M.I.?

Her light was nearly gone,

as the teenage thunderstorms rumbled on.

Every doctor was the same,

no need to listen anymore.

Her hair grew long,

her very own shield,

veiling her face,

her round cheeks,

and double chin.

Don’t show them your B.M.I.

The number must be secret.

Lock it away in your heart,

along with the pain and the shame.

Sweaters became normal,

even in Texas summers.

I can’t let them see,

no roll or curve,

they’ll know my B.M.I.

tacked to every fold.

She hated her flesh,

the constant reminder.

Body. Mass. Index.

Screaming,

YOU’RE OBESE!

and you’re not even seventeen.

Hiding was her normal,

withdrawing was the cure.

No one can tell me I’m not normal,

if I’m totally alone.

Society reminded her,

day after day,

with their media and magazines,

low-rise and skinny jeans.

The sea of high school girls,

name brands woven on every shirt.

Oh, how she wanted to fit in,

wear the clothes like all the pretty girls,

but their sizes all sang,

“Your thighs aren't welcome!

Only perfect BMI’s.”

Her stretch marks faded to shiny white lines,

her constant companions

through struggling,

roaring,

twenties.

No more doctors and their scales,

and those fucking B.M.I.’s

I know I’m ugly

and heavy,

a body invisible to guys.

Her hope was already gone,

only fantasies and bitter thoughts,

constantly wondering,

why can’t my legs look like hers,

or my belly, or my arms.

Not even my booty can save me

from a stupid, high, BMI.

If only she’d known the truth,

that sweet little girl.

Eight years old and scared,

learning to be ashamed and afraid.

If only someone had chanted:

You are beautiful,

every cell,

every normal purple line,

and your weight,

and the growth spurts,

to hell with a B.M.I.

If only someone had defended,

fought,

and challenged.

Away with centuries old foolishness,

this Body Mass Index.

Null and void,

control, alt, delete.

End Task Now and uninstall the program.

It’s not needed,

don’t repeat it.

Be proud of who you are!

Another decade approaches,

and many beautiful journeys.

She knows she’s a thousand percent worthy,

gorgeous,

fierce,

stretch marks and all.

She’s redefined an old man’s metric:

Brilliant, Marvelous, Intuitive.

Brave, Magnanimous, Inspirational.

Beautiful, Majestic, Intelligent.

Whatever vibes for the day,

the minute,

or the hour.

Embrace and evolve.

Be the Bodacious,

be the Strong

be the Invincible Queen

you were meant to be.