Sixteen.
There were always lines meant to discipline,
Meant to hold back,
Meant to extend the distance between
You and food.
There were fingerprints all over the plates,
Incriminating those who felt, who ate, who
Took up too much space.
Sixteen.
'My thighs/arms/wrist/clavicle
Gap/stomach/waist/cheek
Chin/back/butt/leg
Fat. So. Fat.'
Words were laid as memorials to the
Heavily drawn lines of how much, how little
We ate.
Nine.
Ten days of parental absence,
Chocolates bought for each inevitable tear,
Chocolates meant as survival strategy.
Thirteen.
Arms grew past the span of your index and thumb fingers
'But do you want to dress like that
But do you want to eat that
But you are two kilos too heavy
Take away the butter platter.'
Seventeen.
Tablet sized dream
Exploding in your stomach
Lines of blood in your thighs
Demarcating
Where battle scars need to become
Lines of Control
Hills on your wrists, collar,
Strategic advantages for luring rivals in
The inward crater in you that rumbles
Avalanches of hunger with every breath
The no-man's land between your thighs
To build a country for men.
Fourteen
'Lauki. Lauki is the answer to everything.'
If you have large eyes,
Add some desperation.
If you have a pouty mouth,
Add some traces of lips chewed clean.
If you have shiny black hair,
Starve until your skin shines as well.
Meanwhile your diagrammatic representation of perfection
Comprises parentheses,
Set against themselves.
Seventeen.
Chocolates discarded.
Oranges. Water. Daal.
Your body is 70% water and
The 27% of tears that it empties out can be replaced with your special secret:
Liquid diets.
You secretly fantasize fainting because at least
There will be some legitimacy to your brand of
Martyrdom.
Eighteen.
Classroom:
Tables facing Table
Tables questioning Table.
'But does being pretty amount to anything?
But female beauty standards are a patriarchal construct.'
But Skinny, tall, white, is an unnecessary ideal.
Give my back my freedom.'
Eighteen.
Phone Conversation with Mom:
Long distance that amplifies love
And blinds us to all that surrounds it.
'There is a lady downstairs ... she is quite healthy ... she is wearing trackpants and a t-shirt.'
'So what? You can wear it too.'
'Yeah, but ...'
Eighteen.
Contents in the wardrobe:
Some clothes; many earrings, shoes
Space, neatness
Sizes create inevitable spaces and blocks
Of clothes worn on endless repeat
Clothes whose fabric and cut spell 'If only'.
Eighteen.
Dining Hall:
Tables
Surrounded by people
Blemished by food
Squandered, divided, reduced,
Left unconsumed.
Amidst the echoed clatter of spoons tasted selectively
I hear the battle cry
We learnt with our baby food:
'I wish I was pretty.'
There were always lines meant to discipline,
Meant to hold back,
Meant to extend the distance between
You and food.
There were fingerprints all over the plates,
Incriminating those who felt, who ate, who
Took up too much space.
Sixteen.
'My thighs/arms/wrist/clavicle
Gap/stomach/waist/cheek
Chin/back/butt/leg
Fat. So. Fat.'
Words were laid as memorials to the
Heavily drawn lines of how much, how little
We ate.
Nine.
Ten days of parental absence,
Chocolates bought for each inevitable tear,
Chocolates meant as survival strategy.
Thirteen.
Arms grew past the span of your index and thumb fingers
'But do you want to dress like that
But do you want to eat that
But you are two kilos too heavy
Take away the butter platter.'
Seventeen.
Tablet sized dream
Exploding in your stomach
Lines of blood in your thighs
Demarcating
Where battle scars need to become
Lines of Control
Hills on your wrists, collar,
Strategic advantages for luring rivals in
The inward crater in you that rumbles
Avalanches of hunger with every breath
The no-man's land between your thighs
To build a country for men.
Fourteen
'Lauki. Lauki is the answer to everything.'
If you have large eyes,
Add some desperation.
If you have a pouty mouth,
Add some traces of lips chewed clean.
If you have shiny black hair,
Starve until your skin shines as well.
Meanwhile your diagrammatic representation of perfection
Comprises parentheses,
Set against themselves.
Seventeen.
Chocolates discarded.
Oranges. Water. Daal.
Your body is 70% water and
The 27% of tears that it empties out can be replaced with your special secret:
Liquid diets.
You secretly fantasize fainting because at least
There will be some legitimacy to your brand of
Martyrdom.
Eighteen.
Classroom:
Tables facing Table
Tables questioning Table.
'But does being pretty amount to anything?
But female beauty standards are a patriarchal construct.'
But Skinny, tall, white, is an unnecessary ideal.
Give my back my freedom.'
Eighteen.
Phone Conversation with Mom:
Long distance that amplifies love
And blinds us to all that surrounds it.
'There is a lady downstairs ... she is quite healthy ... she is wearing trackpants and a t-shirt.'
'So what? You can wear it too.'
'Yeah, but ...'
Eighteen.
Contents in the wardrobe:
Some clothes; many earrings, shoes
Space, neatness
Sizes create inevitable spaces and blocks
Of clothes worn on endless repeat
Clothes whose fabric and cut spell 'If only'.
Eighteen.
Dining Hall:
Tables
Surrounded by people
Blemished by food
Squandered, divided, reduced,
Left unconsumed.
Amidst the echoed clatter of spoons tasted selectively
I hear the battle cry
We learnt with our baby food:
'I wish I was pretty.'
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