I know you think you’re better than me. And maybe you are. You’re older afterall. You’ve got money. The kind of money that conceals your fat... At least you think it does.
Immediately, my go-to is to insult you're shape. That's so incredibly petty and horrible of me; and I know it. It's so easy and tasteless.
I don't mean it. I don't. And it's because I look up to you.
There is a pain that sometimes fills my chest. It makes my eyes water red tears. The kind that happen in public - that I desperately try to conceal. It makes me sniffle, and cuts my height down about 3 feet - until I feel real small.
Do you want me to feel small?
It’s that kind of pain that’s quick to come, difficult to control. It could happen anywhere, anytime - but most often after someone looks at me the wrong way - says something that makes me feel like I’m stupid, naive... unworthy. The kind of look that says, “Who the fuck are you?”
You don’t even know me...
It strikes when I have no one to turn to, no one to call. I hide in a bathroom stall and wait for the tears to dry. The tears to stop. The tears to go away.
Go away tears. Please just stop and go away. I’m happy. I love this. Don’t let her make you feel this way! Do not let something so small... so silly interrupt this... beauty.
A vine dips into a pond and it ripples. Suddenly the water that once looked smooth, like silk, is distorted. The reflection no longer clean... Now a swirling, rippling - angry - reservoir.
And all I hear is...
Who the fuck are you?
You are... the monster in the closet.
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