I wish I fitted into my brown trousers comfortably.
But I don’t.
I wish I could love this fat body.
But I don’t.
And who is the I in this case?
Small I soaked in patriarchal values.
Sexist.
Racist.
Ableist.
All the ists exist in this I
That has narrow eyes,
Pursed lips,
Calculates and demands,
Constructs beliefs from spurious evidence
So it can fold in on itself with narcissistic glee.
A smirk twitches the corner of its lips
As it caves into itself with denigration.
The other I watches,
Curious,
Loving,
And sees without judgement
The games played,
The means manipulated,
And utters a simple phrase,
“That makes sense,”
As her gaze
Casts wider
Into the contexts
That pattern themselves restrictive
For all involved.
She breathes deep and long,
Appreciates the battles
With self,
With others,
With the world,
Feels the sharp sadness spike her heart,
Sheds soft, soft tears
That roll and tickle their way
To her throat
Where a hatch opens,
A tiny hand reaches out
To catch the rain,
So beautiful in the sunlight
That dapples into the darkness,
Touches the pipes
That begin to warm
So she can make the sounds of love.
She sings
Of warmth
And beauty
And rage
And soon the I’s are soothed into remembering:
There is more than this.
Always.
So much more.
