Do you want to taste (do You
really need that?) something
sweet, pulled fresh from the
oven (damned if I do), damned
if I don’t
want just a moment of
something rich and good
before (too soon, you
haven’t punished yourself
enough)
it burned, the promise of
cream, sugar searing my tongue.
What does it mean to receive?
What have you come to understand about yourself, about others?
What have you become unwilling to allow in your life?
The pairing of accept/except, something for others to receive, not me. Food I enjoyed, especially rich or sweet dishes, a trap: the focus of family events, yet if I chose wrong, selected less-than-lean, didn’t fill my dessert plate with fruit and just a token brownie, cookie, the tiniest confection on the platter.
Yuh FAT; he’d spit it with contempt, yet still grabbing, demanding handfuls of the flesh he purported to find repulsive. Barely chubby early on, just a girl, just not-skinny. If I found the willpower to restrict (I never did, it was always found for me), if I made myself smaller, would I be worthy, my body mine?
As I cycled into adult obesity, then watched the scale drop as I nursed my child (this one thing my body got right), praised as much for the sudden slenderness as for giving life, then rocketing higher still, until a combination of life’s evolutions and health problems ripped the pounds away again, dropping low enough (with a stop at acceptable, at my forever-wedding, unexpectedly svelte beneath the glittering smoky grey I’d chosen, as much the talk of those from Before, as the undeniable triumph over life, in finding this unexpected joy, this second chance, that was what I wanted them to see) that doctors would express concern.
I’m concerned too; I’ve gained back, I don’t look sick, yet I’ve tasted control (over Her, over Him?), the victory of too-small. It scares me; I abhor the undeserved praise, crave it. My fat was what gave him the right to touch me. When do I get to accept myself, or am I destined to feel like an exception?
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