1,74m - 136kg

1,74m – 136kg
12-10-14

You’ve told me your secrets in poems fashioned like skeletons;
Here hangs a rib with a story,
Why there lies a hand with a scar.
I feel drawn in to this stripping down to the bone
And parading around in front of the many unknown faces including your own.

I avoid mirrors with the passion of the vampire who knows it will show nothing...
...nothing good in my case.
But when a twist in the shower forces me
Face first
Into its glassy stare, why then
I am forced to look and see it.
It is what I am becoming, taking suggestions from here
And pulling answers from there.
“Too thick”, “Too hairy”, “Too much”.
Words like those mould me into shapes I don’t recognise
Because they are not the me I want to be.

Confusion wisps within a mind told that “less is more”...
Less food, less fat, less water, less excess weight, less eyebrows, less expression.
Less me.
Yes there are times when I look down at my 136kg and twinge inside at that weight,
But I have learned the hard way that in order to live I need to accept
That buckets of bile and vomit only scar the stomach,
Whilst neglecting meals and drinks wreaks havoc on bones and muscles.

My stretch marks have claimed territory over my hips, buttocks and knees,
Whilst scars, self inflicted, claim my feet, thighs, shoulders, arms and wrists.
Other scars lend their acclaim to accidents with a particularly bouncy cat and a rose bush,
One to a near-fatal car accident.
Should this be less? Should I have less scars, definitely, but in this case more is less.
I have more so I needed it less and so I stopped.
And I will not change my bushy brows for any man.

A small cat on my ankle darts out of long pants and skirts to show
That my ‘goody two shoes’ image from high school is broken, smashed.
The heart with his name in it on my chest proclaims loud and clear
That my ‘Christian Values’ are trashed, tarnished, cracked and down the tubes.
My son will always be the final straw on the church-leaving camel’s back;
I was on my way out, but pregnant and dumped with nowhere to go
I could only turn to non-Christians welcoming arms and strong hugs:
I could only turn to love.
And my James will be forever remembered in his heart tattooed above mine.
And those who dare call me names, dare call him names, can fuck off out of my life;
For ten weeks I carried my son, and each year he grows with me.
And that’s all I have to say about that.