The body is not an apology

and still I bend down
trying to hide it when crossing the street, walking passed the cars waiting at the traffic lights
are they staring at me or the big fat sweaty pig?

I put it in numbers
on scales, just like following a baking recipe:
there is the right amount of flour and there is too much flour;
it seemed I would never succeed in baking

no masterclass, no batch
unless participating in the farmer’s completion for the best well-nourished one –
and here she comes again, my big fat sweaty pig

she follows me
everywhere I go
I feel their stares

she must be hideous to look at, I must be hideous to look at

it is all written on the mirror and it fires back
“breathe inwards”
“flatten your belly”
“strong tights”
“if you could just lose 10 kg”
“do you really want to put that on?”

but pigs have feeling too,
and all I see in the mirror is my Self

she is sad, tired, invites me in
but that Self does not fit their version
so I shut her our

instead: another diet, no carbohydrates, exercise, exercise, exercise –
why do I have curves? why do I need curves?

I know about the fake-reality of a model life
I know everyone else knows it too
I know that this is the only acceptable way my soul, anyone’s soul, has to live by

there is no enough
it is never enough – not enough, not enough, not enough
not thin enough, not beautiful enough, not feminine enough,
my body size is not enough, I am not enough

I tried to kill my big fat sweaty pig
I denied her, betrayed her, I cursed the worst spells on her
I blamed her, I attacked her, I wished her dead
I wished my Self to be dead

with the glasses of the broken mirror
I pieced my Self back together again –
not again, but for the first time

I celebrate her brown, curly hair that when rain crosses the lands joins in the chaotic dance

I admire her fierce mouth and eyes winning over hearts and souls

I praise the steady back holding on to and up Atlas’ world

I thank her legs and feet and arms and hands for endless journeys to far away countries in body and mind

I worship her magical belly, her sacred womb that bears the secrets of the whole universe and knows explosions of joy and wonder

on this day I decided that baking recipes don’t speak truth
it is not the numbers that speak truth
not the stares nor the crushing advises –
they all are like wax grapes, textile flowers and stuffed birds,
they are not for the living, they are not from this world

this world is wild, mixed-colours and round
it is brown, white, black
it is oval, stretched, bend
it is hairy, knows orange skin and laughs with all its wrinkles

I still bend down
I am on my knees and I pray:
I am grateful that this big fat sweaty pig’s ass is mine,


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