The world taught me

 

​To count calories

Instead of accomplishments

To starve my body

Instead of feeding my dreams

To worry about my belly

And my laugh

My thigh gap

And my bra size

To take my focus

From my power

To my shape

So they could shrink me

Into someone easier to manage

 

They told me I wasn’t hungry

It was thirst

To drink a glass of water

Before I nibbled dessert

And taught me to distrust

My body’s needs

Branding it willpower

They told me I had to keep

Doing it all

In white, with a smile

While bleeding

And praised my strength

 

Every bite, every wince

Every growl was measured

By men in ivory towers

And reinforced by acid tongued

Converts

They called it womanly

I call it war.

Quiet is not beautiful

Hungry is not holy.

 

I will not gnaw at my own brilliance

In exchange for a single digit size

I will not silence myself

So someone half as good

And half again as tall

Can explain myself to me.

Hunger is a weapon

And doing it all is a muzzle

By which we are rendered safe

Enough for patriarchy to approach.

 

Then I ate cake that I hadn’t earned

Sharpened my claws

And stretched my voice

Called out the lies

And listened to my body

Took a nap when I needed it

And enjoyed snacks.

I clothed myself in reckless joy

And real curves

Terrifying small people

Because I learned to use my teeth.