(tw:discussion of dieting, eating disorders)
You Have Such a Pretty Face
Each week before New Year’s
my mom made me write
a list of resolutions.
And each year she told me
to include how much weight
I wanted, needed, would loose.
Last year I wrote two resolutions.
I would strive to be happy
with myself, aim to be healthy.
My mom wanted me to put down
an exact number. I refused.
You Could Be Such a Pretty Girl
At ten I started packing on the pounds.
Grandpa Bob died. Type Two.
Dad gave me pancakes and hugs.
At twelve my mom got me a personal trainer.
Bribes of clothes and shopping.
At thirteen, my best friend suggested
liposuction for when I got older.
Bribes of money or books.
By fourteen I could count the times
I ate until I cried
over the toilet
wishing it was as easy to lose
weight as it was to lose my dinner.
Maybe new furniture, your own room?
On my sixteenth birthday
not a single thing was said about my weight.
The next day my dad called me a bowling ball.
I punched him in the stomach. My mom
never said it wasn’t true.
Negative for Type Two.
Five hundred calories a day
with daily HCG injections.
Weekly doctor visits
for more shots,
to make sure nothing went wrong.
This was the cure all,
my mom said,
the pounds would melt away.
You’ll feel great, look great.
And, instead of gaining that freshman
fifteen, I’d lost thirty.
A trip to New York?
But they gained back that summer.
You don’t need to eat that.
At twenty I started to tune my mom out.
Not even pre-diabetic. Because you’re young.
By twenty-one I told my parents to back off.
Wear something else, you look pregnant.
If You Just Lost Some Weight
I admire girls with asses and guts
larger than mine who carry
their weight with confidence
I wear my insecurities
like a fat suit I can’t take off
I can’t hide them
behind a smile
behind a shrug
or a ‘I don’t give
a fuck’ attitude
you know exactly
make me feel