Untitled.

I’m trying to tell you how I feel about myself. I’m trying to explain the folds that happen on my stomach when I don’t want them to. How my laugh stretches my face and then some, how my arms feel heavy when I’m just sitting here. I’m trying to explain the width of my back but what comes out instead is “Thank you, but I don’t eat those.” What I’m really trying to do is convince you to see me the same way I do — susceptible to expanse but restricted on understanding what that means for other parts of me too: my mind, how I reason, my capacity to forgive, my likelihood to understand. It is embarrassing, really, how little I see my self in my body. It’s likely, really, that you care about it far less than I do. You kiss me and touch me and hug me until I feel light again. Until I feel like writing this was a waste. And I think that’s all I’ve wanted: someone who makes me feel like writing anything outside of the lilies growing in my marrow at the simple sound of your name is just a waste.