Chub Rub

Here’s a poem for you that isn’t about love.  

It’s about my thighs 

And how they’re too big.  

Spreading. Thick. Always present. 

Ruining photos and expanding my presence when all I want to be is small, small, small.  

I can’t hide in the background with these thighs. 

They demand attention. 

So, I try to love them.  

I search for thigh gap on instagram.  

It asks me if I’m ok. If I need help.  

Well.  

… 

I click through anyway, scanning past pictures of jutted out bones, and girls that are so, so hungry. 

There are no faces here. No happiness, no pain, just hunger. 

Hunger to be thin, hunger to be better, hunger to be something other than what they are now. 

I jiggle my thighs.  

They’re comfortingly present in the face of all that space and bone.  

Warm. Soft. Real.  

I guess this is a love poem.   

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