Love Poem

(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.