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This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

I am fat.

What do you make of that?

No truly sexy pictures of me,
With my ass on display
And my breasts looking lush,
Without comment of ugliness,
Without remarks of disgust.

No sweet lovers' pictures in photography books,
No hand-holding in the street without giggles and sniggers,
No posting of images, save for jeering or morbid sightseers.

Stick me in Bedlam and look at me wobble!
Push me down on the pavement and watch me struggle!
Slap me to watch my flesh bounce,
And punch me until I scream and cry.

Parade your slim and sexy litheness
In front of the watching world's eyes.
And then push me into the centre of the crowd
And see what they say.

They'd verbally tear me to pieces just for being
Twice the size of you,
As they always do.

"A whale."
"A walrus."
"A fucking disgrace."
"A drain on resources."
"Fat bitch."
"Fat cow."
"Fat marshmallow fucker."
"Bigboobies fat ass."
"A piece of shit."

They don't care that I can be kind,
Or loving, or in need of a hug.
Their only thought is that
Their arms wouldn't fit round me,
And I deserve to be miserable
For getting
Myself into this state.

Why should adult life be any different to the playground?
Oh, it isn't.
Silly me.

Silly, fat, ugly, un-sexy, stupid me.

A child told me,
"You're fat!"

An adult told me,
"Don't tell anybody I did this..."

A teenager told me,
"Why don't you just do us all a favour and
Kill yourself?"

I tried.
I fucking tried.

And I couldn't finish the job because
I had a heart for my
Family's feelings.

I couldn't let them take the blame
That should be mine.
I never wanted to be here,
But I am,
And I hate it.

I try to cover myself in darkness
And black clothes
And hide away from your eyes,
The sneering ones,
And the gentle ones.

But even here,
In a wall of words and flashing images,
In cyberspace and the virtual world,
I cannot hide from your comments,
Even if you don't know that label is mine.

I cannot find undeniable, unshakeable love,
Or escape the bitter comment
That I need rolling in flour to find the right hole.

I cannot find my worth without
My physical size weighing down the scales
Against my favour.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,"
They always say.
"You are beautiful to me,"
The kind-hearted proffer.

The world does not see beauty the way that I do,
And it has infected my eyes until I can't see it when
I turn the mirror towards me.

I cannot look in my mirror,
Save to do my hair.
I cannot look at myself with happy eyes
The way that I can look at others.

And I fear
I shall always be this way until
They wheel me out in a wide box
And burn the blubber to finally
Make me the size I wish I was.

Just a handful of ashes scattered in the lonely wind.

And maybe then, I won't care any more.

Maybe then, the pain will be gone.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

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