On Being a Fat Girl

 

 

[This peice is dedicated to Nancy Carlson’s “I Like Me”]

A commercial asks me if I want to lose weight

and so does the boy at the edge of my bed.

After we fuck, he says he can’t wait until my partner and I get in shape

cause he thinks we’re pretty enough to be models.

I’m not even mad at him

because this world tells us we can do so much more

when we lose weight.

My partner and I talk about our skinny girls,

our alternate thin reality,our inner thinner Barbie selves.

I would wear cut off shirts that shows my belly button

and that hip bone that pokes its way out to the skin.

I could fuck on camera and be an ebony beauty

and not a fetish seekers BBW.

I could buy clothes, lots of clothes

and look at an outfit in a magazine

and not worry that it’s not Lane Bryant or Hips and Curves.

I’d just go out and buy it in a size 5.

I’ve stopped believing in wearing clothes that are less than half my age.

I want myself full and big and thick.

And I don’t want to have to defend being fat or plus size

or all the words that add more than an extra layer to the conversation.

I don’t want my mom to call and tell me sad stories about teenage girls 4x bigger then her.

I don’t want people to talk to me about weight

like it’s the boogie man or a terrorist

or a witch that takes away your beauty each time she curses you with an additional pound.

I was born a thick girl.

I was a fat pink baby with folding thighs and lips too big for my face.

I hit puberty in the fifth grade,

walked awkwardly with maxi pads in my draws

and spread my shoulders out to support my C cup breasts.

I learned my way through plus sized clothes and favored dresses for my full sized belly.

And it just hit me that my body is perceived as a problem.

That people think my body is simply an issue of numbers

and they strategize how I should loss pounds and stay healthy

without my permission or consent.

I tell the boy that I’m already slutty enough as a thick girl

and that if I were skinny, society would be giving me more of an excuse to be loose.

And I ask with the touch of my thigh if he’ll fuck me again and he does.

My body is left a sticky mess by morning

and I feel the naked weight of myself.

And despite what I am told I should feel,

I like me.

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