He’s Always Going to Be Skinnier
Running my hands along the undulating grooves of my body, I feel the absence of you. For so long my flesh has betrayed me, my looks have deceived me, and now I sit alone looking for the pounds of my flesh that I have lost to you. My beauty will always be my own and I must reconcile with that disposition, but what could I do but ruminate to that point of acceptance.
When you feel the indentions of fabric on the bed, do you feel the gap? The abyss which my body used to lie—a hole that no man you will be with fits. They must be funny and clever, a tongue that fills the void with words I could never conceive. Or is it simply that my inside compensated for my out, my brain contorted my corpse into a mold so tiny and acceptable that my position is so easily filled by men half my size.
I will never be so small, petite, and gorgeous, for each breath I take fills my lungs and each thought I make opens my brain. Belt buckles widen, seams rip, and I become huge in my endeavors—too big to rest alongside you and far too enormous to stand next to my replacements.
The term big is beautiful never sat right with me; I must now learn. If I sit alone, carving my solitary space apart from our joint conjecture, then I might as well join myself with a phrase so encompassing that it once put me to my knees in tears.
Gradually filling the void you set with a double of my own—something powerful enough to penetrate my reality and reveal my interior, as you once had. One day, when I feel the mass which I call body, your phantom touch will evade me, leaving me only with the dauntingly massive truth of me.