Loss, has made me fertile.

All

the things

that were

ripped

from my hands,

have found their way

back

to me.

As words.

— Loss, has made me fertile.

Pour grace over yourself.

if the child

deep within

your skin

is weeping,

sit with her

in sorrow.

rub kindness into

her wounds.

sing love

over her fears.

this,

is how you will

both

heal.

—pour grace over yourself.

Honour yourself. Unlearn who you are not.

when you find

the ancient song

in your bones,

but you were only taught

to speak

in thunder.

you

must

unlearn

this.

sing,

or you will

slowly die,

every

day

of your life.

—honour yourself. be true to yourself. unlearn who you are not.

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.

Letting go.

i hung

my broken dreams

on the stars.

one

by

one,

i set them

free.

and now,

here I stand,

empty hands cupped,

waiting for

the new rain.

—letting go.

sometimes,

the things i once

believed

as

truth,

climb

up my throat,

and

crawl from my mouth.

unbidden.

and i have to

strangle

them,

in shame,

before they

find

a home to live.

outside.

—challenging my beliefs.