the weight of the weight
i am so damn tired of starving myself to be seen
of walking into rooms
and calculating how many inches i must lose
to be lovable
to be taken seriously
to be good enough
i have lost myself again
somewhere between the food i didn’t eat
and the apology i whispered
just for existing.
this world has always made it clear
my body is a problem
to be solved.
a sin
to be confessed.
a burden
to be carried, hidden, ignored.
they told me love had a weight limit.
they told me health meant hunger.
they told me
you can’t be whole
unless you’re half of what you are.
they convinced me being quiet
withdrawing and fading away,
is the holy responsibility of womanhood
so i shrunk.
and smiled.
and disappeared
inch by aching inch.
they clapped.
and i died.
a little more each time
someone said
“you look amazing”
when what they meant was
“you look less.”
because suffering is better
then existing like this.
this isn’t about weight.
this is about erasure.
about walking into rooms and knowing
they see you as lazy
before they see you as hurting.
as disgusting
before divine.
as expendable
before exceptional.
this is about how i have learned
to read a room before i speak,
to hold in my stomach
and my ache
at the same time.
how i’ve cried in dressing rooms
more times than i’ve cried at funerals.
how i’ve prayed for smaller thighs
with more desperation
than i’ve ever prayed for peace.
how i’ve wanted to starve
just to feel something
besides shame.
this is not about vanity
this is about survival,
from the billion-dollar lies
that tells us pain is the price of acceptance
do you know what it feels like
to be afraid of sitting on chairs with arms?
to scan every photo for the shape of your body
and not your smile?
to calculate worth
based on what fits
and what doesn’t?
do you know what it feels like
to lose yourself
to a number
and still be told
you’re dramatic?
this world worships control.
it crowns the disciplined,
the hollowed-out,
the perfectly contained.
but i am done being empty.
i am done trading joy
for a seat at their table.
let the chairs break.
i will build my own.
i want to eat.
i want to dance.
i want to rest
without earning it.
i want to be loud
and take up space
and not owe anyone an apology
for the shape i come in.
and if they call that gluttony…
let them.
because i have starved long enough
for their comfort.
i no longer want to be sorry
for the body that holds my rage,
my softness,
my thunder,
my grief,
my resilience
and now?
i want to remember how it feels to take up space
not all at once.
but bite by bite.
breath by breath.
i will be full again.
even if it makes them uncomfortable.
even if it makes me afraid.
even if it takes a lifetime.
i will not disappear.
because i am not the problem.
the weight was never the problem.
but their worship of my disappearance
almost killed me.
and i am done dying
for anyone else’s comfort.
if you can’t accept that,
get used to looking away