Your Expectations

(i)

At night after the fat lady sings,

I bury myself under mounds of books

enjoying the infinite distractions of another’s life

until I succumb to the weary weight

of my own self-imposed exhaustion.

The next day after the sun rises,

I banish the sleep from my eyes

overwhelmed by my never-ending list of checkboxes

praying my accomplishments divert your glances

away from my glaring imperfections.

My life is spent camouflaged in a skin so excessive,

I can no longer discern where I begin and the world ends.

I am larger than life: So opulent, so ample.

Unable anymore to fit in the hole

I dug for myself.

(ii)

I convinced myself too.

To keep moving forward.

Stay quiet.

Attempt perfection.

Fix everything.

Laugh at my own expense.

Play stupid.

Give my body to the first boy who asks.

Be grateful.

Be useful.

Believe (if I follow your rules)

(eventually) someone will see me–

The real me.

(iii)

Not

the overly exuberant

fat girl.

Trying

to fit into the skinny cliches

demanded of her.

“She is always so happy.”

“So easy to be around.”

“Always so helpful.”

“I don’t know how she does it all.”

“The best of friends.”

“A great listener.”

“Isn’t she a trip?”

“Too clever for her own good, this one.”

“She would be so pretty if she would drop a few pounds.”

(iv)

In reality,

I am none of these things.

I am wasting away in Falstaffian perfection.

I am…

tormented by your amusement, your sideways glances,

your assumptions.

“I am lazy.”

“I am laughable.”

I am…

burdened by your paradigm–

Apparently, less is more.

Am I really less of a person because I am so much more than you expect?

It must be true.

I hear it enough

in the everyday chatter of my existence.

(v)

So I hide in the dark recesses of my belly

where my heart and soul used to flourish

before they were devoured.

Buried bone-deep, hidden underneath thousands

of little sugar-coated disappointments

you feed me every day.