Starving, heaving, no one knew my secret. I kept it for years, hidden under smiles and confidence, never accepting when mentally defeated.
I refused to admit it, but the signs were on my body; I was furtive, anxious and scared. Frail and tired and sick.
Never skinny enough, pretty enough - be thin, thinner, thinnest.
The numbers were inconsequential. I couldn’t decipher what was real, all I could do was drown, it was dark, consuming and savage.
The mirror lied, my eyes deceived me. No one made me feel less, only actors and models and greek girls on Millage.
Never skinny enough, pretty enough - be thin, thinner, thinnest.
I didn’t want to stop. And no one interfered. I decided to be strong one day and convince myself I’d be okay.
Fuck society and their expectations of women. Be tiny damnit, zero, petite and drink water with lemon.
I never fit in, I grew up extra large. Abercrombie didn’t want me, like Gaston, the size of a barge.
Does it ever go away? The desire to fit. For women, I don’t know. It seems worse by the day, a constant brutal hit.
Your duty, your worth, your value, they say. Your body doesn't belong to you, praise God the price you'll pay.
Men. God.The government, fuck your patriarchy.
Women deserve better. Big, small, tall.
Never skinny enough, pretty enough - be thin, thinner, thinnest of all.
