Mayonnaise

Inside there still lives that little girl,
Bella Belly, her family lovingly referred to her as.
Her protruding tummy jutting out like an Ethiopian child’s.

She was beautiful as she grew up—already in her twenties now
legs like a fawn, strong but lithe
hair of apricot honey glistening with the reflections of the sun’s rays.

A connoisseur of all sweets,
She would eat nails if they were covered in chocolate.
(How I envy a girl like that as I sit nibbling on carrot sticks, thighs red with friction)

Inside there still lives that little girl
with her furrowed brow— always worried of being left out of the fun.
Affirmations of her self-worth indulgently given to her by family and friends.

The depression her mother and father shared, finally consumed her.
The guilt for having been a “mistake” hollowed her once plump cheeks
and changed her skin to that of a chameleons—first yellow, then green, and finally grey.

Proudly she displayed her “new self” at first. Look how much weight I’ve lost, I eat so healthy now.
Those legs became veined translucent twigs.
Her hair broke off in bits and dulled to that of worn down oak.

Inside there still lives that little girl,
Who I try to show it’s alright to eat,
by stuffing myself with mayonnaise-dipped girl scout cookies—

it’s my plea to make her remember my own self-inflicted disfigurement.
I too felt superior for my “health,” I too received what I know now are looks of concern—even from strangers.

But she was blind to my past—No one saw her eat, except for show like an act she did for only the largest of audiences.
She disguised her shell in layers of clothing
Head always hung down now, her once explosive green eyes now just glass marbles.