Eyelashes bat away fat phobic remarks
and pale, quivering lips yearn to educate so others can learn to appreciate,
the body she’s spent so many years, trying not to hate.
"I don’t want to sit next to her!"
a tall jock exclaimed to an apathetic teacher,
who ushers him away.
Gawking and giggles fill the awkward air,
Fat girls always, sit alone.
"Why not wear something more…flattering?"
A distressed employee remarks, though she tries to see his side, in the mirror
she sees a goddess whose personality is simply, bursting through the shirt two sizes too small.
She notes, upon further searching, there’s evidence of back rolls.
Rack after rack, fit after fit, nothing seems to click, so
she doesn’t buy anything in the store, that day.
Photos from the neck up are just fine, she convinces herself.
No one should have to look at her stomach; when she can’t even look, some days.
Going from, two plates; I’m full. To, one half eaten plate; I’m fine.
Mirrors only reflect what they are given and she doesn’t like the woman whose outgrown her
latest pair of jeans, and who, can’t shop at anywhere besides a thrift store, it seems.
How is she to lure a man in, when— she can’t find the latest fashion trends in, her size.
Stores often forget that fat people, are people, nonetheless.
"You’d be cute if you just lost some weight."
And you’d be charming if you had kept your mouth shut,
she sassily replies.
Why should her weight keep her from being able to get a date?
When is fat ever going to be “in”?
She only says hello, but her body must speak volumes by the way eyes degrade her.
Food was never the answer, but since when was there a fat girl anthem?
Friends were few, to a girl who by fifth grade needed a sports bra.
Everyone picks on the fat girl, no one dates the fat woman and no one
befriends a fat lady, whose “attitude” is her shield.
One night she searched online for help, but found acceptance.
Her full thighs and wide hips were only an accessory to her pretty face.
"Fat shaming isn’t okay,"
"Stand up for your right to be fat!"
Then, liberation set in.
Instead of hiding her curves, she flaunts the way that stripes makes her thighs look wider.
She dabbles into shorts and dresses that show off her legs.
She smiles through chub rub, adoring her jiggly calves and panicked glances from onlookers.
She channels her inner diva, men dig her confidence, ladies freeze.
Waving at whoever she pleases, her arms swing from side to side, but not a worry in her sight.
She will dance feverishly, winking at the rotten faces of society.
Her curves will not determine her career, nor will she be judged by anything,
other than her character.
Maybe she’ll be president, or the turning point of the fat movement.
She could be your doctor, your mother, or your child.
So how will you react, when she looks at you, and bats her eyelashes?
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