Dumpling Girl

dumpling

 

dumpling girl

fat & sad

lumbers across the floor

slips her eyes past mirrors

or windows…

trying to be invisible

trying to be deaf

to snickers

or oinking noises

no pictures please

“it’s just a matter of self control.”

thanks.

a prison made of her own lumpish body

torturous dressing rooms

stretch marks and self hate burn her face

why bother, it won’t look good anyway…

and the tears stick,

lodged hot & tight in the throat

“do you really need that?” they ask

fuck you,

i do now…

a dread of stairs

and small chairs

and summer

you know, pretty thin girls don’t sweat.

“c’mon move those legs. walk faster.”

uhh kinda hard to breathe…

it frightens her when her heart pounds.

fat & sad doughy dumpling girl

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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