Too Much of Me

I can still hear the crunch of the potato chips resounding in my ears like the crushing of my dreams to fit into that dress, 
I can feel the grease of the last happy meal; yes, I still get happy meals because they make me HAPPY! But not as happy as when someone notices that I've lost a few pounds.  
I've never been a big girl, but I never had to be to feel the persecution, 
to feel the real weight of weight.
It doesn't hurt in my bones, this extra fat on me; it hurts in my stretch marks that everyone can see. 
The ones on my thighs cause those under my eyes, 
because I stay up late researching how to get rid of the weight,
of the hate, 
of the self-depricate-ing lies.
It's not so much that my arm fat hinders me from participating, 
but that my bulging arms are not very elating.
In fact they're isolating…. me 
from looking in the mirror because I am so afraid of what I'll see.
I'm scared of the rolling hills of back fat protruding from over my dress or under my bra-straps. 
I'm scared that my thighs will jiggle so loud that I will create a new level on the richter scale. 
So when people ask me what I'm afraid of I might say roller coasters, 
but it's often chocolate, or pasta, or rice, or bread. 
It's food in general, because the thoughts in my head
are telling me I'm worthless.
Look at her! Look at her! 
Where's your thigh gap?
You were skinny once too. Don't you remember? 
Yes, yes, I do. 
But I can't say that these things scare me because everyone would think it's strange. 
But is it really?
Because when I walk into prom are you not going to judge me freely? 
I'm afraid of who I am because of what I think you'll see. 
I'm afraid of who I am because you might think there's too much of me. 
Poetry Slam: 

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