the moon and you

fat

she is fat.

pounds and pounds over weight, and her mother feeds her meals reeking of dead leaves and hisses with a voice like a snake that she doesn't have the right body type to pull off that shirt. as if she doesn't feel the withering glares of the skinny girls at school, as if she doesn't hear what people say when she goes out to eat.

she is fat, and yes, she knows it. how can she not? every time she looks into the mirror she is shown an image that the world has deemed too much of. she is told to slice off bits of herself,  to apply divination to the atoms of her body that she's supposed to love but how can she when she is still the thirteen year old kid they called marshmallow?

she is fat but no, she didn't ask for your opinion. she didn't ask for her mother to
tell her boys don't like fat girls after one too many glasses of wine, and she didn't ask for her father to die before he even got to see her body bloat up and blister.

she didn't ask for the entire world to despise her because she has rivers running up her thighs and splitting her stomach and sometimes when she sits down her stomach folds and folds, but she refuses to be strangled by the stretch marks that you have deemed gross, or smothered by the stomach rolls you labeled revolting.

she is fat, and despite your narrow-minded ignorant opinion, that doesn't mean she is ugly. she has the night stars tattooed in her eyes, constellations spreading across her pupils. her smile radiants warmth and she laughs like vodka and fire colliding into one another.

the parts of her that squish, that don't quite squeeze perfectly in her clothes, do not take away from her beauty. beauty is not a number on a scale, but a smile that cracks open your entire face, so stop making fat synonymous to ugly.

she is fat! she is fat, she is motherfucking enormous, and she is beautiful. she is a goddess and she is a queen and she is fat.