Love is hard work.

Love is hard work.

Content note: talk of self-harm, sexual assault, suicide.


I used to be a songwriter. Or at the least, a writer of poems. Then I basically stopped for a long, long time. For some reason, though, lately I’ve been turning back to poetry to express some of my thoughts. So I share this with you all (though it was originally meant only for me, but I think maybe I should share more personal things on here that might not be so polished).


I used to pinch my skin all over,
enough to hurt but not scar.
Punch my thighs, wrench belly fat
confide to myself, “you’re worthless.”

My beauty was just average,
but my ugly was beyond compare.
My successes, just passable
but my failures all-consuming.

“you’re worthless”
punch
worthless
pinch
worthless
wrench
worthless
slump and cry

26 years takes a toll on a girl.

A year ago, I bought pants that fit 1
in a moment of clarity, a vision of hope.
The fog rolled in, just like always.
“Still worthless” droned on in a chant.

The weather warmed.
I dared to wear a skirt of my own free will 2
It used to mean selling my soul
but when paired with sandals
even for an hour one evening
I felt like I could almost breathe.

Sweltering summer, the call of a lake
I pulled on a swimsuit —
my breasts were impressive. 3
I worried, remembering the time they were not my own. 4
“Worthless slut” murmured in my ears
I cringed, but I wore it anyway.

Fall came. I bought orange nail polish. 5
I never really wore it before.
I stared in wonder at the vibrancy of my fingertips,
berated myself for my vanity.
But I kept the polish anyway.

I let my leg hair grow long and soft,
wondering if I could find beauty,
if this made me a Real Feminist now.
I stroked my calves,
an internal wind rustling
and “worthless” took a breath.
I decided there’s something to both hair & smoothness —
the covering & uncovering are both sacred.

I rang in the New Year dreaming of death 6
while suppressing planning my suicide,
while “worthless” drowned out any hope.

26 years takes a toll on a girl.

A week later, I started wearing makeup 7
— anything to distract the self-loathing.
My lined eyes widened, glossed lips parted:
“I look good” breathed hesitantly — a battle cry.

This week, I’ve broken down daily.
This is where the self-harm would begin.

But I’ve started new rituals.

pour oil in bath water
“you’re worth it”
pull razors safely across legs
“you’re worth it”
moisten my face
“you’re worth it”
dab color on skin
“you’re worth it”
pull on pretty clothes
“you’re worth it”
drink plenty of water
“you’re worth it”
paint color on nails
“you’re worth it”
go to bed when I’m tired
“you’re worth it”
eat food that I want
“you’re worth it”
make art when I’m scared
“you’re worth it”
spend time with my friends
“you’re worth it”

worth it
worth it
worth it
my god, am I really worth it?

26 years takes a toll on a girl
and love is hard work.

But that’s okay.
I’m worth it.

Posted in Fat Girl,