I saw her count her first calorie when she was 11 years old.
afterschool snacks changed from pop tarts to rice cakes, and,
becoming the next Abercrombie and Fitch model was her mission.
having Kate Bosworth’s abs in Blue Crush was the norm,
so, Billy Blanks and Mari Winsor were her new best friends.
kicking and punching imaginary bags in front of our life-size TV,
I sat and laughed while devouring pepperoni pizza off the grease stained paper plate.
I could tell by her face that her taste buds yearned for just one bite, but
her distorted mind whispered lies she didn’t ask for.
To her,
size 4 or god forbid a size 6 was just too much material
for a girl in middle school.
I can still hear the disgust in our mothers voice as she muttered,
“Don’t ever get like that, girls”
when the barely average sized woman crossed the street
“get like what?”
I thought to myself staring through racing raindrops out the car window.
I now understood why my baby sisters’ head shook every time I called her beautiful.
Beautiful wasn’t an identity but an image
Contaminating perceptions and torturing minds, a,
poison so toxic impossible to hide
with every Vogue to Cosmo telling you how to live your lives
it’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up inside.
If only,
she could see herself,
through my crystal,
clear,
eyes
she’d see every one, of her perfect imperfections,
beaming in the light, from,
The snort in her laugh to the scar on her chin,
to the fact that she cries,
because her heart is so big
When society finally redefines what beautiful is
maybe we all can learn to love, and freely live
She still struggles,
to accept every inch of her skin,
but, the more that she does,
the more that we win