I’m drowning in my own flesh
no man can see me in here.
As a woman, I can hardly be found as such
in my form, my ball, my world.
And yet, a woman I still am
weeping and laughing and crying
all in my room hidden away
within my ghastly suit.
I love him.
And yet, I’m still drowning,
in such a way I could not fully show
my love, my passion
my body can hold little passion.
And yet my eyes still look back
to the days we were together,
and for once, my form didn’t matter…
and he and I were one.
Still I drown, and it’s hard to reach out
Though I know it was all just
an illusion, and what it really was
could only be affectionate friendship.
Now, I can only watch and wail
wail at my own wretched flesh
that kept me from attracting his gaze.
For now he’s married…
and she’s far from drowning.
There was this girl I went to high school with as well as college. Thus, we had a creative writing class together. I’m not going to say her name, but she was simple enough to read–and pretty angsty, but very compassionate and thoughtful. But what really inspired this poem was her not so inconspicuous affection for a guy friend of hers, who was tall, popular and very handsome. Thing was, she was and always had been very obese. Nothing would happen by that reason alone. And after reading through a short story of hers in a writing group that, to me, seemed to be obviously a love story between a skinnier her and this guy, I think my heart broke somewhere in there. This guy she was in love with had just gotten engaged. They were friends. She loved him. But because of her weight, bad complexion, and otherwise homely apperance, no one ever gave her a thought.
The name she gave her guy friend in her short story was Scott Smith.
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