1. Denial

   I am bloated and disgusting --

   the orphan fifteen [lbs] hug my waist,

   abandoned calories who want nothing

   but their mom.

   I am not their mom

   but I am warm and soft and sad

   As they are, though I’m not choosing to be sad.

   It’s such a droll word: sad. Sad! Sad?

   I chew this word - SAD - like the cud of kosher cows

   and thank God I’m not a pig.

   I tell myself this:

   Ssssss aaaAaa  dddddD

   is no reason

   to be a little pig.

2. Anger

   Happiness is a choice,

   grief is a buffet,

   and I’m a fat bitch here for a good time.

   A fast of Diet Coke and salted potato wedges,

   Cheeseburgers and hot fudge sundaes,

   whole milk and caramel coated apples.

   I will eat all of the carbs.

   Want to fight about it?

   In the parking lot, you and me,

   of this Golden Corral.

   We will fist fight away the pain,

   burrow in bruises we make,

   and I will break your rib--

   Just one. Singular. Rib.

   And I will suck it from the rack,

   your molasses on my cheek

   and chin smeared like war paint.

   That’s what this is: war.

   I am Napoleon.

   Nothing to lose

   but my farm

   to these men.

3. Bargaining

   I know  a man with COPD

   I told him -- JUST BREATHE!!

   And the fibrosis erupted from his lungs,

   a super volcano of positive vibes can move mountains.

   I mean, have you tried just breathing?

   It's a choice, a healthy, meaty lung.

   My cousin’s on dialysis,

   I asked her to remove the kidneys

   Give them a nice chew

   and drain the juices from her toxic blood.

   it was that easy to change her mind.

   I am not happy.

   I lost my mom and I am eating,

   fighting, screaming, when I could chose

   to be just fine.

   So

   I have a choice:

   smile or I will make you.  

   My grin is just lipstick

   on this sobbing pig.

4. Depression

   Everyone experiences this level of sadness

   like everyone experiences osteosarcoma!

   The tumor became my special friend.

   Myself? I am not so special.

   Fat girls are like tumors:

   everybody wants to cut us out

   especially when we’re 30

   and newly christened ragamuffins.

   This kind of muffin is not tasty,

   nor stuffed with chocolates, berries, cream.

   It is moldy. It is stale.

   It is like culinary shadow work;

   hands in the dirt,

   peeling yeast and soil

   slicing moonlight out with

   a paring knife.

   Gently, I feed the ghost.

   She has been here the entire time.

   One day, she will go,

   a woman mist--Sierra Mist.

   The doctors told me

   no more carbonated drinks.

   It’s why I’m fat,

   but I am fat

   because I’m

   big

   SAD.

5. Acceptance

   I may never be happy.

   I may never smile again.

   I will just eat.

   Maybe that will be okay.

   Maybe it is good luck, greed,

   determination, sincerity

   that mourns with me

   in McDonald’s tonight.

   I turn myself inside out,

   make my flesh from red meat,

   and pull out a snout

   where my nostrils should be.

   Down all fours, I grieve

   mouth deep in milk and apples.

   Oink, oink! Oink?

   “Napoleon is always right.”

Anastasia Jill (they/them) is a queer writer living in Central Florida. They have been nominated for Best American Short Stories, The Pushcart Prize, and several other honors. Their work has been featured or is upcoming with Poets.org, Sundog Lit, Flash Fiction Online, Contemporary Verse 2, Broken Pencil, and more.
IG: instagram.com/anastasiajillies