Garbage Bags

—

When I was eight—
My mother told me that the only thing that “obese people” could wear were garbage bags.
Think: Hefty Ultra Flex.
Pulled around their bulging bodies with clothes pins and knots,
tied by fingers too big for wedding bands.

I grew up learning that
At ten—
Unless I changed things for myself,
my prom dress would be have to be custom made out of bed sheets.
Stitched together by my own poor handiwork,
that I learned so I could add extra fabric to my waistbands—
Because couldn’t tell my mother what size I actually wore.
Because I was already “too difficult to shop for”.
And I was afraid—
That if she knew about the climbing sizes of my jeans,
that the already small meals of salads and sometimes chicken
would shrink faster than the numbers on the scale in my room
when I stepped on it each night.

This is a poem for every kid who ever grew up believing
that they should grow out their hair to hide their lack of collarbones.
Who learned how to convince themselves they were full
because they were taught to never finish all the food on their plate.
For the eleven year olds who look down at their own body—
and blame themselves.

Because they do not believe that are beautiful.
Because they weren’t gifted with a quick metabolism,
or some sort of athleticism,
or even, just some basic fucking coordination.
Who, when thinking about their own creation
came to the conclusion that something somewhere
must have just stuck a pair of flat feet on a potato, gave it a brain, and said,
“figure it out”.

So at thirteen
each time they take off their clothes,
they wish that that three inches off flesh would come off with them.

This is a poem for every desperate teenager—
Who at sixteen,
thought that they might not make it to seventeen,
because last week they went up from a size six to a size seven.
And they still remember that time when they were eleven.
And they still blame themselves.

This is not a poem about self-image
This is a poem about self-respect.

Quick History Lesson.
Gender Studies 101.
In 1963 Marilyn Monroe was a size 14
Which is equivalent to today’s size 8.
Today she wouldn’t even qualify to be a plus size model,
because they max out around a size 6.
Congratulations America.
For one of the wealthiest countries,
We now have the one of the highest populations
of people suffering from self-inflicted starvation

Today, kids are growing up in a culture that teaches them math,
by teaching them how to count calories.
That teaches us that we can suppress those pesky three o’clock pangs of hunger,
brought on after our lunch consisting of—
A bowl of baby spinach sans the dressing,
a glass of lemon water,
ice cubes,
and big gusts of wind—
Through green tea,
a handful of almonds,
and just a small side of our sanity.

That on Wednesdays we get to splurge with one whole rewarding square of dark chocolate.
What we’re supposed to do with the rest of the bar I’m not quite sure,
But I am certain, we are definitely not supposed to eat it.

A culture, that tell us finally,
Front page, Cosmo 2013—
there IS an exercise we can do while sitting down and drinking our morning coffee.
Because don’t forget bikini season is only four months away.

And of course,
that all of this is just them, trying to help us
“to be the best you, that you can be this November”

I know I am not the first person to call Cosmo out on their bullshit
But I know that this is the first time I can admit how
It took me twenty years to learn that
“Obese”
is a term used by bullies.
And that everyone should eat whatever the fuck they want—
as long as they’re happy.

That being fit does not equal being healthy.
That being healthy does not equal being thin.
And that there is more to being healthy than being able to fit into a number.
And most days I wake up wondering—
what is there to be so proud of about reducing ourselves?

This is not a poem about self-image.
This is a disclaimer.
Saying that—
Knowing this information does not mean that you’re a feminist
It just means that you are paying attention.
And yes, that you should be very angry.

Because if we don’t do something drastic soon,
there are going to be eight year olds who suffocate
trying to fit into trash bags.
Because they believe,
that because of their body,
that is the only place they will ever belong.

Bellybuttons

—

By 19—
she was the walking representation of everything she hoped she would never become.
Days were hard, but nights were always harder.
She brews coffee at eleven because she is terrified of her dreams
and searches for inspiration at the ends of cigarettes,
because she likes the way the smoke stings the walls of her throat—
like every self-loathing insult she has ever swallowed.

Stressed and depressed but always well-dressed—
she hides her melancholy under layers of empty arrogance,
stitched into the seams of her worn out boots and ironically trendy ill-fitting sweaters.
By the time the unwelcome sunlight slips through the gaping mouths of her yawning blinds,
she can already feel the warm fright of the day creeping down her fingers.

Some people are not made for mornings—
it takes her 3 cups of black coffee and 150mg of social stigma,
just to get her blood moving.
Too young for Parkinsons—
her hands tremble from too much caffeine and too little confidence.
By three she can feel the longing
for the dust bunnies that had gathered around her organs while she was sleeping,
gnawing away at her rib cage.

She didn’t ask for any of this.
Her clumsy words trip over her taste buds more frequently than she trips over her own feet.
She must have slept in the day when we learned how to make sense of these broken syllables
that clash and bang and leave bruises on the insides of our too-soft skulls.
And now, she is left scrambling, trying to speak in a language
that still feels foreign on her tongue.

She writes in illegible scratches and scribbles because she doesn’t believe
that anything she writes down is worth trying to decipher.
And her hands are still too small
for all of the things she wishes to create anyways.

Most of the things she owns,
are either lost, broken or just completely useless.
And most days,
she still feels far too much or nothing at all,
but she is still standing here trying.
Because she refuses to believe the things that she does not understand.

At 4—
she was told that bellybuttons are fingerprints left by God.
So she spent the next 10 years trying to phone heaven,
but not once did anyone ever pick up.
Now she knows that bellybuttons are just another means of pissing off your parents
that day you felt alone.

At 20—
she hopes to finally realize that there is nothing romantic about her awkward apologies,
or the way she feels claustrophobic in crowds,
and only finds comfort among trees,
Because she understands why they spend their whole lives
trying to hold hands with the clouds.
At what age do we lose our sympathy?

All her life, she has felt the heavy sighs of lonely creatures
fill the spaces in-between her vertebrae.
She knows you will always be able to hear her harsh cracks of compassion
each time she twists her tired spine.

Anchors

—
Some days words wrap themselves about me like weeds,
embedding their roots around my uncoordinated

central-nervous-system,
and in the awkward gap
In-between my two front teeth.

My mother used to scold me to chew my food,
but 20 times grew redundant.
And now I speak with a mouth so full,
that not even I can understand the broken syllables,
of tangled nothings,
that are pre-maturely projected from my pregnant cheeks,
and into the air.

I myself am a walking contradiction,
held together with countless forgotten names and  misplaced good intentions
all stitched up in this too-fragile thing we call a body.

A thing too fragile,
for a world that is made up 70% of water.
And 17% more percent of “land inhabitable for human life”.
Inhabitable,
for a heart that has to beat 100,00 times a day

just to keep you breathing.

You see,
this was never about me, darling.
This,
this is about all of us.
We are uncomfortable mixtures of impossible things.

Because if this planet were made for us,
we would not have to pause,
every 15 minutes—
(in the U.S alone)
Because a too fragile soul could not find it within themselves
to stay here with us.

But just because something is not made for us,
does not mean that we cannot make it work.
Trust me.
I know there are some days when your bones feel like bricks,
and your bloodstream has you convinced that it’s cement.
But that does not mean that your body cannot be a monument.
Our spines are not anchors.
Do not let the efforts of your organs go to waste.
Do not allow the places we can’t go to ruin you.
And for those of you who have been keeping track,

I know that that might only leave us with 13% of habitable land left,

But that is still over 24 million square miles on this Earth
out there for us to see.