warning: a poem about (past) body images issues.

***

each night, when i'd lay in bed,
weighed down by a too-big head
(or too small - i couldn't tell),
my mind was a deep dark well
into which every wish i made
for slimness and a narrow waist
and smooth thighs and big eyes
and hips like sloping hillsides
without a bump or a hitch
and skin so clear it didn't itch
and peel and flake and stretch
into marks like tearing flesh
and also, i wanted normal breasts
(whatever the fuck normal meant),
and sharp shoulders and a collarbone
like a bone that a dog might chew
and a jaw that could slice right through
the hanging rounded fatty cheeks,
and a chin sculpted like a petal
and vivid hair and a tiny nose
and delicate feet with perfect toes
and fingers like a skeleton
and ribs less like a bucket,
more like a trapezium,
and a mind so bright i was adored
and a heart so full it might

burst

right out of me, to love them all,
was thrown right in without a word
as i choked up in a too-long throat,
my endless tunnel of broken hope.

but now, when i lie in bed,
weighed down by my achy bones
after a day i've struggled through,
i thank myself for the strength
i'm given by this wondrous shape,
this warm machine of soft comfort
that wraps me up and tucks me in
and pulls the blanket under my chin,
over my back and tired shoulder
and i am not that much older,
but i have learnt to have a full heart
and a clear mind and kind eyes
and really, that's all that matters,
right?