thefatpoet-blog

[thefatpoet-blog]

The Fat Girl Rant

My stylist told me, and he told me repeatedly, that I became pretty, over and over, as he was finishing up the last touches of my haircut. 'You became pretty' He kept saying, his paan filled mouth stretching into a deep red smile.

'Look, beti, I made you pretty.' My mother smiled her stranger smile. It didn't occur to her to correct him. It didn't occur to her to think that he was maybe wrong. She was just happy I now had bangs to cover up my large forehead. Nowhere in that large area she was trying to cover up that ideal beauty standards held place.

I should have told them, both of them, right there. Flipped my on point curls in their face. Let the judgements bounce on and off me as I walked. Make it a part of the feminine charm.

I should have told them, right there, that I was pretty when I walked inside the parlor, with a large forehead, and largerer body.

I was pretty when I was in the car leading up to the parlor, talking to my size zero best friend about not being size zero.

I was pretty when I was at home a short while ago, poeming on eating disorders, tears and ink and blood.. all writing material.

I was pretty, three years ago, when I was 14, and was all girlish and sad and mildly suicidal and not so mildly self harmful, and mindfully self conscious, self conscious, self conscious.

I was pretty.. only, there is no 'was' to my pretty.

You see, it's an infected mind thing. It's one thing to have an overweight body and look in the mirror, and feel insecure, just like other girls all around you, your age.

It's another thing to feel crippled because of it.

I wish I could blame it on the image that media is trying to portray, but hey, media sells to everyone. I bought inside way too many judgements. Knives. I bought way too many knives.

Sometimes, I cut into my skin, sometimes, I cut out all my side fat with it. I bought way too many knives, the judgements got rusted copper brown.

You see, inside my head, I am pretty. Pretty hot. Pretty beautiful. Pretty tempting. I'm the girl my friends -who-are- boys stare at, when they think I'm not looking. I'm the girl who friends -who-are-boys don't want to be just friends with.

Inside my head, I'm my best friend.

You see, I like to learn. Geology. Political science. History. Astrophysics. I like to learn, and there's a lot of me on the outside, so I figured it would only be rational to have a lot of me on the inside too.

The boobs of my brain are plump, and round, my mind's hips shake Arabian, and my brain's bellybutton turns you on.

My brain's a sexy, sexy, raunchy, hot chick. You'd want to do me, right on this table.

But your eyes can see me only on the outside.

I sit next to a boy, feeling like I'm the boy. It's not a good feeling. Put a blade through me, maybe I'll bleed translucent fat instead of blood.

You talk to me about horror stories, I tell you about trial rooms. By now, you should know that mirrors are my demons. Ha, what else do you expect from a fat girl? Inside trial rooms, there are mirrors that show your front, and your back. Oh, your fucking back. Burgers. Tyres stacked on top of each other. Ice cream scoops. Christmas trees. Diabetes. A fat girl's back.

Clothes, plausible outfits, all around me. The casualties have been too severe, I'm sorry to say that your lover, that pretty little red dress did not make it. Did not make it past the breasts.

Your brother, the pink strapless, lost a leg trying to stretch to fit your hips.

Your mother, the torn jeans, sustained several fractures from climbing up your Asia sized thighs.

Your father, the salwar kameez, is holding onto dear life against your huge, and shapeless ass.

You put your loved ones through hell. What kind of abomination are you?

An abomination who's kind of in love with fashion. A fat girl in love with fashion. Oh, of all the ironies. You can't talk about clothing you can't talk about food you can't talk about exercise you can't talk about jawline without earning, 'oh, but you're too fat to be talking about this' looks.

Other girls, your friends, tell you that you are pretty too. They tell you that they have insecurities too. That they feel like you do, all the time. They're just better at fighting it than you are. Their intentions are kind, but it leaves you bitter. How do you tell them that they worry pimples and a little insecure shy glance, you worry jiggling, and disgusted turn of faces?

How do you tell them that they while they dream short clothes and suits and cleavage and butt lifts, you dream of what they already have?

How do you tell them that while they fear being cheated on in a relationship, you fear always being a DUFF?

How do you tell them that while they talk about silhouette, you think about how you don't have one?

How do you tell them that?

You see, by seventeen, I have given up wanting. Or being wanted. I don't look at boys in the eye, unless he's bigger than me. I can't understand the idea that some guy might find me pretty, because I've already seen me through his eyes when he walked inside class, and I'm just a four.

So it comes off across as a surprise when he tells you that he loves you. That too, not on a dare. You lose your mind trying to figure out what he can possibly benefit from calling you his love. Money? We're too young. Fame? We're not hardworking enough yet. It confuses you.

He calls it love, he calls you love, he smiles a gratitude smile to God when you walk inside class to sit next to him.

You wonder why he's acting. The only reason you sat next to him is because you thought he was friendship material.

You see, I wasn't always jealous of my best friend. I wasn't always unspeakingly sad when the boy I liked held her hand through a horror movie. I wasn't always jealous when she occupied center of attention like she was born there. I probably was too big to fit into the center. Let her sit there, it's not like anyone would notice if I was gone anyway.

Unless she notices and tells everyone.

One of my closest friends called me a dumpling. I noticed that people don't fall head over heels in love with dumplings. Dumplings are cute at best, but it can't beat size zero french fries.

That day, I went to sleep crying, sick of being everyone's dumpling.

I like to think I have a large heart, to fit my other wise large body. I love too loudly, too abrasively, too deeply. If I loved you, in any way, you'd know. I love you all the love I don't give myself. I'll use my Asia sized thighs to cross oceans just to make you smile when you're having a bad day. None of your flaws would seem too big for me, none of the things you hate about yourself would seem hate worthy to me. I understand size, and believe me when I tell you, everything about you is extra large right.

I also like to think of myself as a ray of sunshine, because you can't look at sunshine early in the morning and not feel a little better about everything that's wrong. You can't not feel the slight warmth, goldening your skin. I aspire to be that way.

But mostly I like to think of myself as a ray of sunshine because it's so fucking thin.

[thefatpoet-blog]

I was all sunshine, honeybees and big smiles. I used to smile at strangers, give random gifts, relish in my ability to make other people happy. I was that girl you can count on to make you laugh when you want to do nothing but wallow. My hands were warm to hold, my heart warmer. My eyes healed.

And then I learnt the ways of ice.

Now my blood vessels have frosted over, hands comfortably nestled in between the numbness of cold bricks. The girl who played with the stars is cynical about F.R.I.E.N.D.S now.

Cut me with your knives, I will bleed crusted blood. When I tell you that my heart broke, it's not just the heart.

It's the entire system.