My Thighs Are Working Against Me

 

Love-handles. The sludge of flesh that leeches itself onto my hips.

I itch to get rid of you.

How satisfying it would be,

To scratch out bulges and bumps beneath my skin.

Sometimes I dream of surgically slicing off my flabby-arms

To tailor them to the size I want please.

 

I want.

What an awfully simple way of being:

Wanting.

Is the request too high?

To want to smile at rather than scrutinise each thigh?

 

I would smile, if the bloody lumps smoothed over.

 

What the hell are they for, anyway?

I thought the point of life was procreation,

Is my body some kind of feminist revolutionary?

Dear God! You are, aren’t you?

 

I thought you and I were supposed to be a team!

To stand as one!

To have suitors drool for us!

To fall for us!

Isn’t that the deal I get for being a girl?

Come on, body, I need you to cooperate!

Just once!

Just once! Come on! Please!

 

I’m tired of waiting for you to change

And finally make me happy –

Or proud of you –

 

I reject you, body,

You torturous thing.

 

I hate you, body,

you’ve hurt me,

and I hate – you for it.

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2 thoughts on “My Thighs Are Working Against Me

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