Weight of Me

I hate you.

I hate seeing you in every mirror,

in reflections I didn’t ask for.

The way clothes fall on you—

they’re never cute the way they’re supposed to be.

.

You ruin them.

Your arms—thick like weights I never asked to carry.

Your stomach—loud, round, unignorable.

You disgust me.

.

Your face is fuller than I can bear,

your double chin always peeking through,

your thighs—earthquakes, uninvited.

I’ve tried everything.

Even starving.

.

Still, you stay.

I can’t eat what I want.

I can’t look the way I want.

And I’m supposed to thank you for keeping me alive?

.

Why can’t you be smaller?

Why can’t I look in the mirror

and feel something other than grief?

.

They notice. I know they do.

The way your belly leads before anything else.

.

I cover it with fake confidence,

drown it in big laughs and loud clothes,

but it always comes back—

the ache, the disgust, the defeat.

.

I want to change you.

Every single inch.

I want the “perfect” body I see everywhere else.

The small arms. The tight stomach.

The soft, small face.

.

Why is that so hard?

.

I’ve hurt you.

But you’ve hurt me more.

And still—

you’re here.

Patiently waiting.