More than lines

Red lines zig-zag my stomach as I pull my jeans off

The rolls come out

and I feel my shoulders deflate once again

I keep telling myself that I don’t care

Like I don’t care about the cellulite dimples

Or the stretch mark streaks

But who am I kidding?

I do care

I care that people who knew me back then

look at me with pity now

I care that my body has betrayed me

puffing and deflating depending on what I feed it

I hate that I’m trying.

And it barely seems to work.

Before, I could eat without thinking

And feel comfortable with my curves

Of course, I was never bone-thin

Only a measly size 4

But now, being a size 8 causes my heart to ache

as if doubling my size

has cut my self-worth in half

I have been told that no one will love me

because I have gained so much weight

or that I have an eating disorder

when I eat less of what my body seems to reject

Both of them were women

trying to sound encouraging but ended up being so cruel

It seems like I can never win

and look at food like it’s poison

instead of the sustenance that is keeping me alive

I wish my body’s lines and society’s boxes

did not get to me.

But they do

Poking and probing

Enclosing and suffocating

And I say nothing

because I’m supposed to be strong

But strength is found in vulnerability

as I sit here with tears in my eyes, writing about something so personal

I hope you know that you’re more than the lines in someone’s “perfect” sketch