I. I have tried it all. Beginning with giving it up altogether— Sat at the table In the diner on Mill Street With mom, dad, and the other three And said, I didn’t feel well. I had a late lunch. Nothing sounded good. I have tried Atkins. In the 9th grade, While Rachel made fun Because anything (absolutely anything) Could pass by her lips Without spending so much As a moment On her hips, Or the soft space just bellow Her navel. II. I have been small. Counted on paper, in apps, In my head. Weighed, measured, Restricted. Went for a run. Walked miles in the neighborhoods— In Bolivar, In South Kansas City, In Excelsior Springs. And I have gained it back, Plus ten more. Just like they said I would. III. I have tried intuitive eating And body positivity. Avoided the woman in the mirror And looked her in the eyes. Stood backward on the scale at the doctor's office Told the nurse With the glasses on the chain, To tell the doctor I wouldn’t be stepping up Onto the scale that day. Told them to fuck my insurance Have them call me, I said. And I have eaten it all. Took the pad of my finger, And swiped it across The bottom of the bowl. Caught sweetness, melted And running down the side of The cone with my tongue, And closed my eyes and tasted it. Really tasted it. I have slept naked, And said only good things about the dimples On the back of my legs. And I have bought jeans two sizes too big, Baggy sweatshirts, And said only hateful things about the dimples On the back of my legs. And I have sworn To feed myself only good things. And I have sworn to feed myself Whatever sounds good. To hide the scale. To weigh every Monday. To weigh every day. To never weigh again. IV. And I have tried to get free, To be comfortable with the way Parts of me will always spill over And fold. I have petted the softness of me. Pinched, smashed, And sucked it in. I have read essays. Written essays. Manifestos. Chanted mantras. Swearing I won’t pass this on To them, With the dimples on the back of their legs And the bellies that hang over places, Deliciously so. And I have failed to put them first. To choose to feed myself In front of them, To choose to love myself In front of them, Instead of continuing to chase thin. I have mourned the cruelly sudden Melting away of all my favorite places— The roundness of their cheeks The folds under their chins Kissed the swell of their belly For the very last time While wishing for, Praying for, The melting away Of all the same places On me.
Bios
Mary Sauer
Mary Sauer is a writer and mother living in Kansas City, Missouri. Her writing touches on mental health, grief, and motherhood and can be found in Vice’s Tonic, Popula, and Good Housekeeping. [provided in April 2023]