"You see those skinny girls eating unhealthy foods?
They can only eat them because they are skinny,
and clearly it doesn't matter what they eat.
You, stick to your skim milk and bland cereal,
tally your calories against the steps you take every day,
rather than focusing on the journey, keep your eyes glued on the destination:
being proclaimed pretty."
This is what an informed magazine tells me.
But as I swallow, I watch the news
the entertainment report, the gossip's slew,
the doctor's new study on obesity
showing a parade of decapitated fatties
All flesh shot at wide-screen angles,
puffy arms, overbearing ankles,
faceless to protest the prostitution of their shame,
nameless save for the labeled game.
And yet we scream when the identity of beauties are hidden,
determined not to be objectified women,
how different is this image that the weight of a body
creates the weight you hold in society?
Because the media mauls me with methods of subtracting
imperfections from myself in areas I am lacking,
only to achieve this covated place
and realize it is as much as disgrace
being ogled for the dent in my waist,
as it is being gaped at for the roundness of my face.
For whether it's the double count of my chins,
or how clearly the doctors can see my ribs,
I am a human.
We cry about the crime of identity theft,
yet the world is robbing us of all we have left.
If women who are obese can be anonymously degraded,
then chopped off my head too so I may be berated.
Answering health problems by a cruel solution
is prescribing pollution.
So to all you "skinny" girls, and "fat" girls,
and "wide" girls, and "sticky" girls,
and "boyish" girls, and "womanly" girls,
eat your cereal, consume your cake,
but do it because it makes you real,
not a cardboard fake.