Poems

They taught us the body is a city the gods may enter at will. So I learned early how to lock my gates. Apollo came first— not with plague, but with measure. He laid his lyre across my ribs and said: only what is tuned survives. I listened. Demeter passed me by in winter. Her hands were full, and I pretended not to be starving so she would not stop. I told myself this was discipline. The earth believed me. I counted like a priestess. Seeds. Hours. Bones. Every omission felt li

I watch her every day and I see everything she does. The lunch table hears her murmur about going to the bathroom but only I discern the faint gagging after she disappears to carve her belly whole. The nurses disregard her, painting her emptiness as hunger, but only I hold her hand as she traces the flaring of her ribs. Her boyfriend teases her, squeezing her cheeks and arms, but only I see her falter as she pinches her thighs. I know her thoughts I feel her emotions I see ev

I heard crying from downstairs It was just like any other night, My stuffed animals smiling in the corner, My collection of books waiting to be read, But something was not right, Especially because the crying didn't involve yelling Mom wasn't angry She just did not feel beautiful Beautiful woman, with a big heart and an impeccable drive I admire her in so many ways But none of them had to do with her body But I know she has always believed that her body meant something, To my

When I look in the mirror, I look too fat, Too wide, My clothing oversized, Tell me, is someone lying to me? When I speak out loud, My voice shuts down, My hands instinctively adjusting my clothes, My mind holding me captive, Tell me, am I lying to myself? When I step onto the scale, I see overweight written on it, I begin writing down my calories, Checking everything I grab at the store, Tell me, is my reality a lie? When I sit down, I make sure to tuck my stomach, To lift m

i learned my body the way people learn enemies— by watching closely, by flinching first. mirrors became witnesses, never kind, never silent. every curve a crime, every softness a failure. i shrank myself into apologies, into numbers, into “almost enough,” believing if i disappeared neatly i might finally be seen. now i know —it was never my body that was toxic, it was the voice that taught me to hate living in it.

I spent my youth in careful thought Of shape and measure, worth and frame, Believing virtue might be found In lesser breadth, in smaller claim. I learned to weigh myself in glances, To read each silence as decree, And held my form to harsh account As though it stood for all of me. How quick the world instructs the eye To judge the vessel, not the soul; How readily we mistake the part For evidence of the whole. Yet time, that patient tutor, shows What youth is loath to underst

I learned my body through mirrors, through numbers whispered like verdicts, through the way praise arrived only when I took up less space. I learned to negotiate with hunger, to call it discipline, to mistake silence for strength and absence for control. But this body— it carried me through classrooms and kitchens, held my breath when I cried in bathrooms, showed up every day even when I wanted to disappear. I blamed it for changing, for softness, for need, for not staying sm

She learns early to fear her reflection. Not for what it shows, but for how much it lies. Some days it stretches her. Some days it shrinks her. Some days it makes her disappear entirely. Still, she looks — because not looking feels like failing, and she has spent her whole life trying not to fail at being someone she never chose to be. There are mornings when her body feels borrowed, stitched together from apologies she never meant to make. She tugs at her shirt, at her skin,

I heard what you said about me today. Did those words feel close to home? We are more similar than you think I can picture you on the scale with tears in your eyes I can see you sitting in front of a plate of food, with knots in your stomach I see you within me But I know me, do you know you? Do you carry the pride of being a kind person on your back,  Even though you want to die? Then you aren’t truly me, not really But I don’t see it in that way  I see you as hurt I see you

I wake inside this husk of silk as if the world stitched it too small. The walls breathe against me, whispering shapes I should take when I finally tear them open. My own wings worry me. They shine too loudly in the dark, a brightness I never asked for— colors that feel like they belong to braver creatures. I press my body to the chrysalis, feeling its thin certainty, wondering if the world outside measures wingspan like worth. When I move, the chamber tightens— a reminder th

I am the consumer of my imperfections. I wonder if the rolls on my neck can be stripped away. I hear cries and regrets rising from my stomach. I see the numbers on the scale climb higher. I am the consumer of my imperfections. I pretend that I am skinny and able to wear clothes that fit me. I feel the tightness of the fabric cinching my frame. I touch and prod my mind, holding it in chains. I worry that it will never be enough for me. I cry and wail until I purge the doubt. I