'you'll go down in history'

they call you Rudolph

They called you Rudolph because you loved Christmas.
5 years old
dressed in antlers and a coat that should be three sizes too big,
but feels three sizes too small,
but you’ve grown into such a big girl! And you don’t care because doughnuts taste so good
boys are grosssssss!
you’re young but you’re fat but it’s cute because you’re young and fat so
your ego floats on clouds

They call you ‘Rudolph’ because you’re fat and jolly and your nose goes an unsightly shade of red when you’re cold.
Its affectionate, really – they tell you they mean nothing by it, and ‘reindeer are cute, right?!’
so you laugh it off,
and your belly shakes when you do,
and you laugh some more because they laugh at that, too
because if you didn’t laugh at it you’d cry,
and they’d probably laugh at that
even more.

Pages and pages strewn on the floor,
pictures of ‘pretty girls’
I wanna be a pretty girl
and you’re colder here than you were outside,
smothered in blankets and a mothers love so heavy you’re drowning

I wanna be a pretty girl!
and you’re joking – of course you’re joking, you want to be a doctor,
a lawyer, a teacher,
inspire the thousands after being inspired by none
but the size two models on two dimensional paper,
fifteen going on thirty
the antlers lie in the corner,
dusty.

He calls you ‘Rudolph’ because he thinks it’s cute,
baby you’re so cuddly
happiness becomes synonymous with fat
and fat becomes synonymous with
an unquenchable desire to vomit on everything he’s touched.
You can feel your pulse in your tears, and the suffocating fat
that embraces your lungs as they don’t breathe
they don’t breathe and they
don’t breathe
and you’re a hysterical mess on the floor of the
house of a man who doesn’t love you
and doesn’t think your fat is cute

Rudolph dies aged 25.

you die aged 87, it says influenza on the certificate
you’re still fat
your nose still shines.

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer… 

The End

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