I fell in love with a thin boy.
Whose bones were like a Xylophone,
I played loving notes on them until he asked,
"How's it back home?"
My heart raced,
pounding in my head.
Back home Dad "watched our weight."
So when the vultures come back all they find is bones.
Claiming my beautiful fair skin could've gotten me 1st place if it were not for my ridiculously large ass.
He says, "That is so mean."
mean.
mean he says...
Mean is when your mere presence insights cruel laughter that turns everyday citizens into monsters.
Mean is the never-ending list of names they gave me so I could have something to carve into my grotesque stomach with a razor.
Mean is when you hold your breath because if they can't hear me maybe they can't see me.
Mean.
Mean he says...
Mean is when every day is a living hell and even though you have begged God to end your suffering he has granted you another day of breathing.
Mean is the cruel joke that I am only pretty if I am thin but I am supposed to eat every day.
Mean is the endless exercising and dieting I do in hope of being seen as human in the eyes of the world I live in.
Mean is the tampons they tied in my hair to warn me staying fat was going to get me in trouble.
Mean is the popular boy asking you out as a joke because it is hilarious to see a heart swoon at the thought of such an absurd impossibility.
Mean is the food that was dumped on my tray as children finished eating, like a trough for a pig.
I'm crying.
Because I know all too well what mean is.
"I think you are beautiful," he says.
The tears are flowing down my face, I always loved music but my body will never sound like yours.
He smiles, "But you, my dear, are so much more than an instrument."
