I Prefer My Body in the Morning

I prefer my body in the morning,
when there’s a faint taste of
last night’s dinner on my tongue,
when my stomach is leveled flat
like measured baking flour, and
growling from the calories
it burned in sleep.

I prefer my body in the morning,
when my thighs haven’t swollen
from too much salt, and my panties
glide over my hips like silk,
when the water that hugs my
waistline has receded, and the
stretch marks aren’t taut from
menstrual bloat or Mexican gas.

I prefer my body in the morning,
when I can turn to the side and
half see a figure in the full
length mirror, when I can breathe
in my gut and it not appear
too obvious, when I can squat
and a round buttocks starts to
take form, when I can tuck the
fat with the tails of my blouse
into my pants and not morph
into the shape of a pear.

I prefer my body in the morning,
when I can strut with confidence,
when men turn their heads, when
caking makeup becomes an
accessory instead of a mask,
when I’m three pounds lighter
than I will be after lunch,
before I skipped breakfast,
and binge ate dinner.

In the morning when I wake,
when I stare at my naked
reflection, cup my breasts
in my hands and push them up,
it feels almost enough—I feel
like I could be . . . enough—


Body (Buried Series)

The room was dark; the blinds had been closed, the curtains drawn, only a faint light seeped in from the street lamp outside the window. He pushed me inside and shut the door. I could barely breathe. The smell reminded me of potatoes I’d forgotten in a basket on top of my refrigerator. The spuds had begun to sprout and decay, exuding a stench that sent me searching for the raccoon or opossum I was sure had died outside my kitchen window.

He pointed toward the bed. Nearly blind, I patted the mattress, starting at the foot and working my way up, until my hand fell onto a leg that didn’t flinch under my touch. Frozen in fear, still holding onto the stiff limb, I slowly turned toward the headboard where the comforter had been pulled up over the face in the way that doctors pull a white sheet over the body of a person who had just passed away.

He flicked on the overhead light, and I shielded my eyes under the sudden brightness of the room. “Do you really have to see it to know what’s under there?” he said, stuffing his fists into his pockets.

I returned my gaze down to the bed, stared at the outline of the nose and waited for the in and out pump of the covers in the surrounding area, indicating the flow of breath.

“She’s dead,” he said flatly.

“How?” I asked, my voice cracking, sounding like a pubescent boy.

He shrugged his shoulders, avoided my eyes and looked toward the body lying under the covers. “I just…held the pillow over her face…and didn’t let up until she stopped moving.”



Catch up on previous installments:

Today is also my two year anniversary of blogging! I started this blog because I love writing fiction, so it’s only right that I entertain you with a great story on my anniversary! Check out other stories and posts I’ve written on this day, including my very first post!
A Cold, Gray August (first post!)