Love Poem

Location

12054
United States
42° 36' 27.6372" N, 73° 51' 34.3764" W

(poems go here) The fall of eighth grade the leaves
changed their glorious colors
and I was diagnosed with overwhelming loneliness.

Everything was blurry and distorted as I
rushed into Middle School girl's bathroom.
I tried steadying myself on the dirty
sink but my hand slipped and I looked up:
A tear-stain, blotchy-faced, hair matted
desperate thirteen-year-old child
squinted back at me,
Hungry for validation, longing for acceptance.
My head spun as I thought back to those mean, mean
girls.
My tongue went dry
Gagging, I found solace in my porcelain haven.
Gasping lead way to heaving
and once I eradicated that hunger, I slammed
my head into the stall door, groggy and crying.

My anxieties about navigating the lunchroom were
eliminated as I found consolation
in the cold, linoleum floored room with three stalls and three sinks.
Self-consciousness about eating in front of those
tiny, thinned-boned monsters I sat with

no longer an issue because now,
everything that I ate came right back up.
Or no food was given to my body at all.
I punished the wide-hipped, fleshy, milky skinned
creature whose body I possessed.
I cursed my genetics, beating the enemy into
submission.
With every binge, purge, or starvation episode
I heard my insides crying out in pain,
begging for mercy.

As I ballooned from “overweight,” to “underweight,” “to healthy
Weight,” I never became
Perfection.
My thighs were never small or muscular enough
to wear shorts in the summer, so I sweated through
seventy-degree weather.
My arms were never toned enough to wear short sleeves,
so I wore sweaters and long-sleeves religiously.
My midsection was never chiseled and defined enough,
so I swore by one-pieces until the ninth grade.
I was never pretty, smart, funny, or good
enough.

But what standards were I failing to measure up to, you may ask?
Beats me.

I didn't want to change, (being a by-product of
my mother and her inherit stubbornness)
For every promising sign of progress,
I fervently resisted by inching back to
my comfort zone of self deprecation and sabotage.
But on that cool, calm, fall night, when I refused
to leave the house, sobbing because I was horrified
with the thought of people seeing me
in all of my fat, bloated glory,
my mind was flooded with images:
A cheery five-year-old tot laughing,
her face obscured behind a mask of cake and frosting.
An apprehensive fourth grader flaunting a gummy,
toothless smile as she waits for the big, yellow school bus.
An out of breath twelve-year-old running, with
her heart beating in her throat, lungs bursting,
to safety during an impromptu game of “Ghost In The Graveyard,”
I swallowed hard.

The fall of twelfth grade, with the leaves dancing
in ruddy reds, zesty oranges and winsome yellows,
I run.
I run with earbuds blaring in long, methodical strides
Taking in the crisp, nonjudgmental autumn air.
And as I return to stare at my blotchy-faced, hair matted, milky skin
complexion in the steaming bathroom mirror,
for the first time,
I smile.

The fall of eighth grade the leaves
changed their glorious colors
and I was diagnosed with overwhelming loneliness.

Everything was blurry and distorted as I
rushed into Middle School girl's bathroom.
I tried steadying myself on the dirty
sink but my hand slipped and I looked up:
A tear-stain, blotchy-faced, hair matted
desperate thirteen-year-old child
squinted back at me,
Hungry for validation, longing for acceptance.
My head spun as I thought back to those mean, mean
girls.
My tongue went dry
Gagging, I found solace in my porcelain haven.
Gasping lead way to heaving
and once I eradicated that hunger, I slammed
my head into the stall door, groggy and crying.

My anxieties about navigating the lunchroom were
eliminated as I found consolation
in the cold, linoleum floored room with three stalls and three sinks.
Self-consciousness about eating in front of those
tiny, thinned-boned monsters I sat with

no longer an issue because now,
everything that I ate came right back up.
Or no food was given to my body at all.
I punished the wide-hipped, fleshy, milky skinned
creature whose body I possessed.
I cursed my genetics, beating the enemy into
submission.
With every binge, purge, or starvation episode
I heard my insides crying out in pain,
begging for mercy.

As I ballooned from “overweight,” to “underweight,” “to healthy
Weight,” I never became
Perfection.
My thighs were never small or muscular enough
to wear shorts in the summer, so I sweated through
seventy-degree weather.
My arms were never toned enough to wear short sleeves,
so I wore sweaters and long-sleeves religiously.
My midsection was never chiseled and defined enough,
so I swore by one-pieces until the ninth grade.
I was never pretty, smart, funny, or good
enough.

But what standards were I failing to measure up to, you may ask?
Beats me.

I didn't want to change, (being a by-product of
my mother and her inherit stubbornness)
For every promising sign of progress,
I fervently resisted by inching back to
my comfort zone of self deprecation and sabotage.
But on that cool, calm, fall night, when I refused
to leave the house, sobbing because I was horrified
with the thought of people seeing me
in all of my fat, bloated glory,
my mind was flooded with images:
A cheery five-year-old tot laughing,
her face obscured behind a mask of cake and frosting.
An apprehensive fourth grader flaunting a gummy,
toothless smile as she waits for the big, yellow school bus.
An out of breath twelve-year-old running, with
her heart beating in her throat, lungs bursting,
to safety during an impromptu game of “Ghost In The Graveyard,”
I swallowed hard.

The fall of twelfth grade, with the leaves dancing
in ruddy reds, zesty oranges and winsome yellows,
I run.
I run with earbuds blaring in long, methodical strides
Taking in the crisp, nonjudgmental autumn air.
And as I return to stare at my blotchy-faced, hair matted, milky skin
complexion in the steaming bathroom mirror,
for the first time,
I smile.

The fall of eighth grade the leaves
changed their glorious colors
and I was diagnosed with overwhelming loneliness.

Everything was blurry and distorted as I
rushed into Middle School girl's bathroom.
I tried steadying myself on the dirty
sink but my hand slipped and I looked up:
A tear-stain, blotchy-faced, hair matted
desperate thirteen-year-old child
squinted back at me,
Hungry for validation, longing for acceptance.
My head spun as I thought back to those mean, mean
girls.
My tongue went dry
Gagging, I found solace in my porcelain haven.
Gasping lead way to heaving
and once I eradicated that hunger, I slammed
my head into the stall door, groggy and crying.

My anxieties about navigating the lunchroom were
eliminated as I found consolation
in the cold, linoleum floored room with three stalls and three sinks.
Self-consciousness about eating in front of those
tiny, thinned-boned monsters I sat with

no longer an issue because now,
everything that I ate came right back up.
Or no food was given to my body at all.
I punished the wide-hipped, fleshy, milky skinned
creature whose body I possessed.
I cursed my genetics, beating the enemy into
submission.
With every binge, purge, or starvation episode
I heard my insides crying out in pain,
begging for mercy.

As I ballooned from “overweight,” to “underweight,” “to healthy
Weight,” I never became
Perfection.
My thighs were never small or muscular enough
to wear shorts in the summer, so I sweated through
seventy-degree weather.
My arms were never toned enough to wear short sleeves,
so I wore sweaters and long-sleeves religiously.
My midsection was never chiseled and defined enough,
so I swore by one-pieces until the ninth grade.
I was never pretty, smart, funny, or good
enough.

But what standards were I failing to measure up to, you may ask?
Beats me.

I didn't want to change, (being a by-product of
my mother and her inherit stubbornness)
For every promising sign of progress,
I fervently resisted by inching back to
my comfort zone of self deprecation and sabotage.
But on that cool, calm, fall night, when I refused
to leave the house, sobbing because I was horrified
with the thought of people seeing me
in all of my fat, bloated glory,
my mind was flooded with images:
A cheery five-year-old tot laughing,
her face obscured behind a mask of cake and frosting.
An apprehensive fourth grader flaunting a gummy,
toothless smile as she waits for the big, yellow school bus.
An out of breath twelve-year-old running, with
her heart beating in her throat, lungs bursting,
to safety during an impromptu game of “Ghost In The Graveyard,”
I swallowed hard.

The fall of twelfth grade, with the leaves dancing
in ruddy reds, zesty oranges and winsome yellows,
I run.
I run with earbuds blaring in long, methodical strides
Taking in the crisp, nonjudgmental autumn air.
And as I return to stare at my blotchy-faced, hair matted, milky skin
complexion in the steaming bathroom mirror,
for the first time,
I smile.

The fall of the eighth grade the leaves
changed their glorious colors
and I was diagnosed with overwhelming loneliness.

Everything was blurry and distorted as I
rushed into the Middle School girl's bathroom.
I tried steadying myself on the dirty
sink but my hand slipped and I looked up:
A tear-stained, blotchy-faced, hair-matted
desperate thirteen-year-old child
squinted back at me,
Hungry for validation, longing for acceptance.
My head spun as I thought back to those mean, mean
girls.
Me tongue went dry
Gagging, I found solace in my porcelain haven.
Gasping lead way to heaving
and once I had eradicated that hunger, I slammed
my head into the stall door, groggy and crying.

My anxieties about navigating the lunchroom were
eliminated as I found consolation
in the cold, linoleum-floored room with three stalls and three sinks.
Self-conscious about eating in front of those
tiny, thin-boned monsters I sat with
no longer was an issue because now,
everything that I ate came right back up.
Or no food was given to my body at all.
I punished the wide-hipped, fleshy, milky-skinned
creature whose body I possessed.
I cursed my genetics, beating the enemy into
submission.
With every binge, purge, or starvation episode
I heard my insides crying out in pain,
begging for mercy.

As I ballooned from from "overweight," to "underweight," to "healthy weight," I never became
Perfection.
My thighs were never small or muscular enough
to wear shorts in the summer, so I sweated through
seventy-degree weather.
My arms were never toned enough to wear short sleeves,
so I wore sweaters and long-sleeves religiously.
My midsection was never chiseled and defined enough,
so I swore by one-pieces until the ninth grade.
I was never pretty, smart, funny or GOOD
enough.

But what standards were I failing to measure up to, you may ask?
Beats me.

I didn't want to change, (being a by-product of
my mother and her inherent stubbornness)
For every promising sign of progress,
I fervently resisted by inching back to
my comfort zone of self-deprecation and sabotage.
But on that cool, calm fall night, when I refused
to leave the house, sobbing because I was horrified
by the thought of people seeing me
in all of my fat, bloated glory,
my mind flooded with images:
A cheery five-year-old tot laughing,
her face obscured behind a mask of cake and frosting.
An apprehensive fourth grader flaunting a gummy,
toothless smile as she waits for the big, yellow school bus.
An out-of-breath twelve-year-old running, with
her heart beating in her in throat, lungs bursting,
to safety during an impromptu game of "Ghost in the Graveyard."
I swallowed hard.

The fall of twelfth grade, with the leaves dancing
in ruddy reds, zesty oranges and winsome yellows,
I run.
I run with ear buds blaring in long, methodical strides
Taking in crisp, nonjudgmental autumn air.
And as I return to stare at my blotchy-faced, hair-matted, milky-skinned
complexion in the steaming bathroom mirror,
for the first time,
I smile.

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