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.

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.

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.

Not enough.

You say that I am nothing

special.

Not beautiful,

enough.

Not thin,

enough.

Not popular,

enough.

Not,

enough.

But,

see how I can turn

my pain

into flowers;

fragrant.

An offering

for all the others;

not enough.

—Not Enough.

Woman, you are not a number.

You are not a dress size,

or a number on a scale.

How dare you

reduce yourself to a

number;

quantify your very essence?

You are hips,

full,

breasts,

nurturing.

A womb,

lifegiving.

You are arms that create

a safe space for the ones

who look at you with love.

A heart that swells;

continously

making room for more,

to love.

You are vibrant life.

Courage unfettered.

A relentless hope,

singing in the dark.

You are spirit,

and flesh;

exquisitely crafted

from heaven’s breath.

Hear me now!

All that is you,

can never be contained

in a number.

On Motherhood.

For you,

I lay down my darkness.

When it calls,

I turn my back;

refuse the siren call of my escape.

Only,

for you.

Because,

in your eyes,

I see the only light that shines kindly on my

empty places.

You,

are my

redemption.