for those who wander, wonder & define life on their own terms

Why I Cry

I used to diet by eating one Reeses and a slice of pizza

BOOM! I was a waif and always running late.

Now, I see skinny women of a certain age and think…

“They must smoke.” This is not a joke. I can look at a

a pack of Oreos and my ass fat quadruples. Oreos are

unscrupulous little wafers of hate.

Things…certain things…now jiggle instead

of lift and bounce, and I ain’t talkin’ about

my ears. I could blame it on the years, but that’s like

listening for singular voice in a canyon of echoes.

I now have to buy jeans from a section for “curvy,”

Is that like being big boned? I used to check my

Bone-ed-ness with fingers around my wrist. How can I

check my curves? By looking at my thighs and that space

in between. Mind the gap they say, except ain’t nobody

falling in that space. Or do I check with two arms around

my waist? Maybe that’s how I can tell if I carry too much

meat. If those arms can circle me whole then SWEET, but

if they linger disengaged well, I’ll soften that blow with

a bit of yogurt, maybe an apple and a cry. Yes, I used to

diet with one Reeses and a slice, but I also lost my mind

over a guy who wasn’t worth my damned time. I threw

tantrums when I didn’t get my way. I rushed through every

single day. Couldn’t wait to get older, richer, wiser. “Gave

it up” for a crappy-assed piece of pound cake and last-minute

flowers on my birthday. Yeah, there’s a little extra

in the way in recent years. It softens, but so do fears.

Tubby me might cry because I’m no longer a size 3,

but drama…I let that be.

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