Brialee Turner

They are laughing at me,
calling me fat,
making fun of what I’m
shoveling into my mouth.

It’s been the longest and most
sweltering day.

I am desperate for energy.

I’m exhausted and my body needs fuel,
but I don’t say that back.

I take what they say
because I don’t know how
to stand up for myself,
and feel shame because of it.

What they don’t know is
how much I have struggled
for perfection,
to please them.
To do what they want and
to *be* who they want me to be.

I don’t see the radiating smile
that I have,
or the ways that my arms and my mind
embrace those who are outcast.

I don’t notice how my body
is strong and powerful,
that it has survived every painful
moment up to this one.

All I see,
and all I hear,
is the message
that who I am as a
female is my body,
and that they can make
comments about me
that are so searing
it feels like white, hot
glass.

They don’t know what I’ve experienced,
how much I have hated my vessel
myself.

If they knew they wouldn’t have to say it
twice.

And I feel that if I respected myself,
I wouldn’t believe their words
a thousand more times.