I am not fat.
Though I have been
Scarred by
years of internal torment
that may warrant
the behavior I display,
making me slave to
sideways glances from
faces unknown,
empty compliments spoken in tones that let me know that
somehow
I am desirable.
A stranger's touch can
become a crutch
used to
limp from bed to bed
to get some
drug-like fix of lust instead of looking inside to
realize that
I may actually be worthy of love.
But
there's no need for
self-reflection
or recollection of
painful memories of how
I was teased for
being a little fat;
okay,
a lot.
But that's not the point 'cause
now I'm the tease
so do what you please
just please,
please,
please,
make me feel
beautiful
or
wanted
so I can be haunted by that
chorus in my head
when I
jump into bed
with a
strange girl
or
strange man
reminding
me
that
I
am
not
fat.
I am not fat;
so as long as I'm
all that to
someone,
anyone who
lusts after my body,
albeit
bruised and broken by
thoughts unspoken of a
fat little boy who
lives inside the
shell I am today,
crying out for
internal validation with
external gratification as
the only means to the end
when
I can pretend I'm
fulfilled.
This end won't justify the means
since
I have seen that
I am not fat
but I'm empty.
Ben Cuevas, age 18
