Find yourself (again).

strip

yourself

bare.

so that you

can find

the place where

the wild flowers

grow.

—find yourself (again).

Beauty from ashes.

so,

your heart is broken,

and

pain has

leached the sunlight

from your bones.

tell me,

what will you do

with this extraordinary gift?

—beauty from ashes.

Purge.

…and i lost

the weight.

beautifully battle weary;

wearing hunger as my badge.

eviscerating my soul.

peeling back my skin,

layer by layer.

just to fit in.

…and i gained

the weight.

becoming fat with

failure.

and yet,

my breath did not end.

—purge.

On seeking inner healing.

peace

in my bones.

this is

my gift

to you.

—on seeking inner healing.

Fat.

feel

the weight

of the word

in your mouth,

before you set it free

to cling to the skin

of another.

sometimes,

the smallest words

are the

heaviest

to carry.

—fat.

This poem is deeply personal.

Years ago I battled bulimia.

I have, ever since I can remember, been in a constant struggle to accept my body. Many of my poems reflect this, and the healing that I have since found, but the battle always rages within—anyone recovered from an eating disorder will tell you the same.

Today, I am deeply passionate about body-positivity and appreciating bodies of all sizes and shapes. I exercise because I love the feeling and I eat to be healthy.

My spirit was bent out of shape from the very first time I was called ‘fat’—I was about 5 years old, and that word followed me for most of my formative years.

When others stopped; I continued calling myself ‘fat’.

F a t.

It is such a small word, isn’t it? And yet, it is a heavy word to carry.

It marks you.

Leaves you standing there—naked under the scrutiny of the one who flung it your way.

I have so much to write on this topic. So, so much, but just for tonight—this—take care with this word. Feel its weight before you allow it to cling to the skin of another.

Or, yourself.

Why I write.

i sing

my song

of hope

to the world.

a sweet

lullaby

for

the broken ones.

shhhh.

listen.

your healing

is coming.

—why i write.

On feeding pain.

and what of

this hunger

that weeps

in my belly,

but lives in my

my soul.

it took me a lifetime

to realise that food

only quiets the ache;

never satisfies it.

—On feeding pain.