this is older
And then there’s other shit too on top of oh my god how do i talk to a girl, like i’m fat.
like every time i feel the waistline of my leggings tug and then roll lazily down over my stomach to rest at the uncomfortable juncture of my hips, every time i can’t actually just leave the house in a t-shirt, every time i think with growing dread about spring and summer when i can’t wear stretch pants anymore, not really and it’s not like the whole summer i spent in jeans because i didn’t own shorts, i was thin then. it didn’t matter. now i can catalog and track the emerging stretch marks on my skin. the sides of my thighs, my butt, my breasts. not on my arms yet but will they appear there too??
this. this fatness, this expanding.
my body doing what it wants, the direct result of what i put into it, what i don’t. food being the intake, time being the thing it doesn’t ever get. no consideration.
i am back to a vessel containing a pair of eyes and a brain and i thought that dancing and doing all this was supposed to make this shit easier but it’s not been the solution i expected and now i don’t know what to do with myself.