Small
My thighs rub together, my belly spills over
I have a countable number of chins
On me and the model the clothes won’t be the same
You spread your arms and hold all of me close
My vociferous nature takes over my hands
The action somehow still drowned out by words
I’m “too much,” “not enough,” and still misunderstood
You give space and hear both body and voice
My wet lashes reveal I care more than I should
There’s no hiding the face of the feelings
Trying too hard would only allow them to win
You take my hand and teach crying is safe
You accept all the things I don’t like about me
And within your embrace I feel lovably small
I’ve been told so many times not to let others make me feel small, but I’ve spent a lifetime wishing they would.
When I was the eldest-daughter in Kindergarten who doesn’t need to hold anyone’s hand; who can sleep without a nightlight and won’t cry about a scraped-up knee.
When I was the elementary child who matured too fast; getting a bra two years before her peers and being told "you’re such a smart and good kid, try to work it out by yourself while I help the others”
When I was the teen girl hurting, trying to match her size to others’, constantly failing to keep her over-sized emotions in check and making an ever-bigger name for herself as the “overachiever”
When I was the college kid who gained so much more than the Freshman 15, still leading more extracurriculars than she should and losing friends to opinions.
All I’ve wanted for so long is to be small enough to be the protected instead of the protector, small enough to fit into all clothes off the rack, small enough to have my voice be heard at a whisper, small enough to fit in all of society’s pre-decided boxes.
But my partner doesn’t see anything about me as too big; the way he loves me makes me feel small.
And feeling small makes it easier for me to love being big.
