Some girl wants to be Barbie when she grows up. The place card in the middle of my table tells me so. A pain in my chest resonates. It’s a doll. She wants to be a plastic doll? It feels like nothing and everything all at once.
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It happens in a second. As quick as I can sharply inhale. Yet it happens quietly, so she doesn’t hear the sound. I glimpse the face in the photo we just snapped and I don’t recognize myself behind some added lines and layers. My finger hovers above the trash icon. Waging war with a battle I can never win. Fueled
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We've convoluted the word fat from something that describes a body type to something that describes someone's worth. And I can't stand it.
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Chop Wood, Carry Water 