My body is my body when I wake up with bed-head.
I walk down the street and people stare.
Diagnose me with illnesses;
assuming I’m going to die because of my body.
Men hassle me for my number and comment on my ass.
My body is no longer my body.
People give me dirty looks because of the way I dress,
surprised that I’m showing off their body. They don’t like that.
They don’t want me to like my (their) body.
I go to shop for clothes to show off my body.
There are close to none.
They don’t want me to like my body.
They don’t want me to dress my body.
They want to shame me into losing weight
so that I can fit into their clothes.
They ask me why I’m wearing what I’m wearing.
My body is not my body.
I go to the grocery – see weight loss ideas, diet and low fat foods.
Magazines with bold print on the cover telling me that I can lose
20 pounds in 2 weeks eating whatever I want.
I’m not supposed to like my body. It isn’t mine to like.
I watch television, almost naked women everywhere.
None of them look like me.
Women who I find attractive.
My body is not my body when my body is queer.
No rights. Love is illegal.
No one is supposed to look like me.
I read the news online.
New reason for being fat in America.
New law banning women’s rights.
New law banning marriage equality.
New ‘Obesity Epidemic’.
Using words that degrade and oppress me.
Economy. Sadness. Depression. Why can’t I just be me?
New diet fad? Why don’t you try it? Just try it.
There’s no harm in trying it.
Like when I tried Atkins in high school and fainted
because I was starving?
It’s just a part of life, a part of being woman.
Losing weight for bikini season. Keeping off those holiday pounds.
Be thin. Be thin. Be thin. Be thin.
My body is not my body and I should want to look good,
how everyone expects me to look.
I see a new law going through the workings.
Telling me what I can and cannot do with my body.
A law that goes against everything that I believe in.
But I can’t do anything about it.
I fight and I fight and nothing seems to work.
My body is never going to be my body.
My fat is comfortable. My body is mine.
I don’t want to be crazy again, counting and measuring
and hopelessly dreaming.
My body isn’t supposed to look like that body.
My body isn’t supposed to have rights.
My body isn’t supposed to love a body like mine.
My body is exhausted and wants to give up.
My body can’t. I’m happy in my body. It’s beautiful.
I have scars showing where I’ve grown and
I have the pain from your hateful comments on my heart.
They aren’t going anywhere. You’ve done your job, haven’t you?
I’m not changing who I am. I am not changing who I am for you.
I’ve accepted myself.
Why can’t you accept me, too?