Poems Of A Beautiful Storm

J e w e l.

Dedicated to adulate_

One day old: I was born, small and precious. My mother cradled me in her arms.

"You are loved. You are perfection. Never will you forget that I love you."

Six years old: I love dolls. They are p e r f e c t.
Skinny and tall.
Long hair and pretty faces.

"I will be like you.
   S k i n n y
      T a l l
         P r e t t y."

Her words came back to me.
    "You are perfection."
Six years old: I was chubbier than most. Over the scale for my age. It is written down.
My mother blankly stares at the scale then me.

"I want you to be perfection.
Perfection is s k i n n y.
Skinny like me."

Skinny like her. That's what I should be.
    That's what I'm going to be.

Nine years old: I am not skinny like my mom.    
I'm still f a t.
She looks at me with a fake smile,
            "You are perfection."
She lies. I  a m  n o t.
I'm not  Pretty , tall and s k i n n y.

I want to be perfect.
I will be perfect.

Eleven years old: I am skinnier but not enough.
My friends are perfect, pretty and s k i n n y.
They have everyone telling them they are beautiful.

They say they are beautiful but,
         Am I beautiful?
Nonono.
   I am f a t and u g l y.

I'm not s k i n n y like them or her.

Thirteen: I'm getting there. I only eat little.
She only gives me little. She is happy.
" We are going to be perfect together" she smiles.
Size 3.
    Not good enough.
       Still not pretty.
My collarbones aren't sharp enough.
Arms aren't long and skinny enough.
Hip bones aren't in display.
     I'm not perfect yet,
                But I will be.

Fifteen: Wake up. Time to get perfect.
She starts seeing I'm skinny.
Too skinny. She's worried.
       She's jealous.
"Eat. You are too skinny".
I eat.
506 calories inhaled.
1 more mile to run
30 minutes till I rush it out of my throat.
Another bite taken. Another. Another.
Till the plate is empty. She is pleased.
I am not.