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Used To

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There used to be a time
where, in the midst of summer winds blowing about me,
I would feel the sun on my face,
see the freckles on my arms,
my shoulders,
my nose,
and feel beautiful.
When could feel my skin stretched tight
and my hair flowing loose.

There was a time, long ago,
when I liked my legs,
and didn't mind my big feet,
and I held my head high.

There was a time,
but that time has long since passed,
and now I do not feel beautiful.
Now there is a girl inside my head
whose cold voice snakes around my brain
and slithers over my skin
and hisses in my ears
and tells me,

Look at yourself--
you're a pig, a big,
puffy,
bloated,
nasty
pig.
It tells me that food is my enemy,
and I know it is right.
It tells me I need to stop eating,
that I have no self control,
that I am disgusting and disappointing,
and I know it is right.
You used to be pretty, it says,
and I know without hearing the rest of the sentence
that I'm not anymore.

There was a time when I felt beautiful,
but now that time is lost.





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