Sometimes I would put my hands in front of me and grab
A simply enormous piece of fat
Then I try to cup it between my hands
Watching it spill over the bands of my fingers
I often imagine that I can chop it off with the nearest blade
Or have a nearby fairy or genie whisk it away
That I would magically eat something and make it grow small
Cause starving isn't working at all.
I try to do what other people say,
Call it a food baby and other cute names
It makes me think that there is enough between my hands
(To my eternal shame)
To make up an entire baby
Who I am now refering to by their name
YOU ARE READING
I wish you'd listen
PoetrySometimes our loved ones cause us the most grief. And sometimes there's nowhere to run from grief, anger, and anxiety. Growing up can be a difficult journey filled with change, aches, and loss. These poems are the introspective thoughts and memorie...
