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.
What an awfully simple way of being:
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! 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.