The Weight of Longhand Memories

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I remember when I was fat –

back before keyboards

when I had to write by hand, and feel it flow.

Now I type, and let the feelings go. 

I remember hating my body.

and always knowing I was disposable: un-pretty.

I wished I was invisible

only ever seen at all the wrong times

Being big means

being picked out when its time to be picked on

Picked apart

Like the pecking motions my fingers make

searching for keys – symbols among symbols strung together

a cipher;

the code of silence all fat girls know.

Pointed out, I was transformed

into a collective transmitter of social standards of size.

I tried to stop listening,

my body carrying so many messages.

I always wrote so that my voice didn’t forget to call me back

into my body – chubby

into my body – all I had in which to hide

Try as I might, I never did fully disappear. 

Its been years and my body looks 

so different now

except I still feel the same:

ashamed I am not thinner.

Typing it out

Morse Code of the digital age 

where we no longer write it –

because longhand is  too close to

reaching out

and feeling it all over again. 

My skin

that once covered so much more of me

still tells the story, cell to cell:

body memory.

 

 

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