April 2, 2017
I use to be angry at my body
Saddened into a spell of rage that my belly wasn’t flat like the girls in the magazines
Upset that I couldn't be, remain thin- una flakita
Depending on my day it would puff out
Holding, marinating with secrets that had been brewing
Stories in waiting for me to unravel
I use to stare at "it" this belly, my body?
Every morning in front of my bathroom’s full body oval mirror
Pushing, pulling, tucking it into where I hoped to get it someday
Mistreatment is what I recall
When I was young my father would wrap his hand around my leg telling me to remain small
Fear is what I gathered before visits to my mother's home
The pinching , micro-managing of my appetite, the not eating...
I prayed that the many parts of this body was invisible to her eye- enough for the world
On visits she would pinch my inner thighs, stare at my body, analyze the "it."
"Don't gain too much weight, it doesn't look good on you," she would say.
I often wondered, "Did I pass the test?"
Now in my bathroom, I have only a medicine cabinet mirror
Only my face is seen
I've been learning how to touch my belly
Checking in with her without the judgments of "should"
I have been rubbing her roundness
crying in my bed
on the grass
in my hammock from all the years of self inflection
patterns of mistreatment
Now, I read books, journal with her, and bring breath to her through the practice of yoga
I place stones around her in the evening
Rose quartz, Moonstone, Red Jasper, Unikite- However Spirit guides me to assist her
I place stones because I am still unsure of love and how to love her without the heavy strikes of hurt
she, they-almost me
Reclaiming the distant, this, that, she, her and crossing the bridge into embrace of me, I, WE.