I’m Ready To Be Loved And In Love.

I stopped waiting for you to call

“Go ahead, try and preach self love to the fat, southern girl who has been sitting the pews her whole life. I have heard it all. It doesn’t matter the sermon, or how many times I pray, I can not love these stretch marks, these thick thighs or this stomach that hangs. Oh but I have tried, repeated the phrase ‘real beauty is on the inside’ so many times, in so many ways it could almost be a new bible verse. I spray on confidence like my favorite perfume and call myself Beautiful like it is my god given name but it burns like holy water in the mouth of a sinner, a lie. And I am trying not to see every flaw each time I look in the mirror but I am several sizes too big for the mould that everyone keeps trying to place me in, that I keep trying to cut off parts of myself to fit into. It’s like trying to make a dress that fits like a sausage casing work for an evening out, it’s too small, not for me, but I am trying to fight the zipper until it closes anyway. I am tired of fighting. I am waiting for a miracle, a revival, to wake up one morning and love the way that I look in the clothes that fit me, to not think that every compliment I have received has been some sort of societal confession ‘I’m sorry Father, I found the fat girl attractive.’ So I’ll keep coming to service, sit in the front pew and pray because one day, I am gonna love this body like a temple. One day I’ll look at this stomach and see a cascading waterfall over my wide hips, these thighs will be tectonic plates shifting past each other, and these stretch marks will be a story I am not afraid to read every night when I undress. I will look in the mirror and see no flaws. And one day, I will call myself Beautiful like it’s my god given name and it won’t burn like a sin on Sunday.”

“I tell everyone who asks me that I don’t even remember why we parted ways, slipping into the familiar speeches I’ve been rehearsing for months now. I say I don’t mind speaking about you, that I haven’t dialed your number in a long time. I tell myself I can no longer recall the details of that day you left. I say that it’s been too long, that it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t know what it is to you, only what it is to me, but I’m keeping things like that quiet. All I know is that I’m lying through my teeth when it comes to you. See, I say I don’t know how long it’s been since we last spoke, but there are four hundred and thirty-six lines drawn in my diary, and somehow I’m convinced this is your doing. I say I don’t remember the last words you said to me, but they are still lodged beneath my skin, each one a barb I can’t seem to get rid of. The only thing that remains between us is silence. I don’t know if I want to fill it back up anymore. I don’t know if I could, even if I wanted to. All I know is that I still open my diary and draw a line every day you don’t reach out to me and tell me you’re sorry. Truth is I should have told you that a long time ago, but I never thought the moment was right. Maybe that’s not something we get with every person - this one moment to make things right. Maybe sometimes things just end and they will never be the same again - and all we have to do is somehow come to terms with it.”

“appreciate the ones that don’t take a missed call or two personally. the ones that know it’s all love if i can’t get back to you immediately. the ones that don’t view your distance or hiatuses maliciously. the ones that make space for you, even when you can’t make space for them.”

I felt this

“To whoever loves me next, I’m sorry if I’m afraid of you or if days of flirting turn to radio silence, without warning. I’m sorry if I make you say the words over and over and over until I believe them. (I’m sorry if I don’t believe them.) I will probably spend more time worrying about losing you than I spend trying to keep you. Trouble is, every single time I’ve ever thought something was too good to be true– I’ve been right. Understand, I will know how to be vulnerable with you, but I won’t know how not to regret it. And I have no idea how deep we’ll be into this relationship before I admit I’ve never done this before. Not really. Not in any way that counts. Before I admit that I know how to put my body inside someone else’s but not how to make it beautiful. I probably won’t be easy to love. Too many people loved me badly, I’m not sure I know how to do it right.”