A body I tried to conquer
I learned my body
before I learned myself.
Learned the way light could betray it,
the way fabric could cling like an accusation,
the way mirrors could turn ordinary skin
into something unforgivable.
I stood in front of glass
like it owed me an explanation.
Why are you shaped like this?
Why do you take up so much room?
Why can’t you be easier to love?
Every reflection felt louder than my own voice.
I began to measure my worth
in invisible rulers
angles, curves, shadows,
how small I could make my existence
without vanishing entirely.
Small became holy.
Small meant disciplined.
Small meant strong.
Small meant safe.
Control wrapped around me
like armor.
If I could master hunger,
master numbers,
master the space between my ribs
Then maybe
I could master the ache
that had nothing to do with food at all.
Because it was never just about a body.
It was about chaos.
About feeling too much.
About wanting one thing
in a world that would not stop shifting.
So I chose the one battlefield
I thought I could win:
my own skin.
But skin is not an enemy.
And bones are not trophies.
The more I tried to conquer myself,
the more I fractured.
I turned celebrations into calculations.
Turned hunger into a test of character.
Turned mirrors into judges that never adjourned.
And still
no number was quiet enough.
No reflection gentle enough.
No version of me
small enough
to silence the fear of not being enough.
I wanted control
because I felt powerless.
I wanted to disappear
because being seen felt unbearable.
But disappearing
is not the same as being safe.
And control
that requires self-erasure
is not control at all
it is fear
wearing the costume of strength.
My body was never the problem.
It was carrying me
through every cruel thought,
every skipped kindness,
every moment I treated it
like something to defeat.
It kept breathing.
Kept beating.
Kept choosing me
even when I did not choose it.
And maybe the most terrifying thing
is not gaining or losing,
not shrinking or expanding
but surrendering the war.
Letting my body be a home
instead of a project.
Letting hunger be human.
Letting myself exist
without earning it first.
I am more than a silhouette.
More than a measurement.
More than a number that decides
whether I deserve to be loved.
And even if I don’t believe that yet
even if the mirror still argues
there is a part of me
that is tired of fighting myself.
A part that wants to live
without trying
to disappear.
A