Confessions of a Fat Girl

Melanie Brunet

I’m here once again.
I am eating this damn rice cake,
pretending it will fill the void
and transform me into her—
that wraith-like beauty loved by the world—
she who is supposed to be my reflection,
but has somehow deserted me.
I try to capture her through rituals of serving-sized
bowls of “special” K, homemade sugarless smoothies,
and constant portions of H20 and “lean” cuisines.
Yet I’m the same—tired, defeated,
and mercilessly fat.

I catch a glimpse of
my body, the battle wounds
traveling up and down every surface,
leaving no crevice unmarked. Stretch marks
over breasts once swollen with life-elixir; my
pillowed stomach once carried signs of life but
now, hangs in defeat. The big, clumsy arches
of my curvy hips collide with the corners
of the wall when I pass by, reminding
me of their uselessness.
My own image
disgusts me.

With a mouthful of diet food
I recall the girl—seven and
slim and seduced by fairy tales—
The flawlessness, the perfect form;
the promise of a happy ending.
Prince?
They lied.
He came not to love,
but to rape,
to impregnate
a little girl and leave a fat girl in her wake.
Now the princess
is a creature too ugly to include,
or love.

Waiting for the stillborn happiness to
revive, I realize that it has been an eternity
Since my size held purpose;
I am rejected, old, ugly—
I am used and tired;
I remain an outcast in this hollow,
Inflated shell,

thankful

that my skinny son will never understand.
Will never have to.