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
Like the pecking motions my fingers make
searching for keys – symbols among symbols strung together
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
and feeling it all over again.
that once covered so much more of me
still tells the story, cell to cell: