The girl in the shadow is not who I am.
She comes around to insult me after my bundle is birthed
and stalks in the shade, unwelcome.
She mocks me with her muffin pants and bubble shirts,
makes me do a daily double take in the mirror.
Makes me feel like froth and flab;
I don’t even know who she is.
She hates herself ‘cause the numbers don’t lie.
She tortures me and the numbers
become our worth.
I wage a constant battle to hide her bulk and bulge,
her battle scars and marks she bears of victory.
The voices of reason and deceit and chaos
tell me what I should be doing.
“Stop feeding her,” some say.
“Just embrace her and give in. Love her,” say others.
The dialogue in my head tells me she’s not who I am,
But it’s hard to believe.
Hard to understand.
I don’t recognize the fat suit that entombs me.
It’s me in there but I’m trapped.
Trapped in the sagging boobs and deflated balloon of a belly.
Caged inside a body that isn’t mine;
one I woke up in and don’t want anyone to see.
I survive by disguise –
behind the babies and the bags and billowing blouses,
by avoiding the mirrors and the spotlight
and blaming the girl in the haze behind me
because she’s not who I am.
© 2013 Jesi Abernathy
Image courtesy of Dan/freedigitalphotos.net