Fat Cells

I finally got the nerve to wear
the purple two-piece
to the beach when visiting my grandparents,
finally confident that I was no longer chubby,
that I had grown out of my awkward stage,
and they made sure to mention how Neal
was turning into a handsome boy
and how Erin
was filling out nicely to her figure
and how I was a very smart girl.
When we got home
I took a black Crayola marker
and drew the arrows and lines of plastic surgeons
on the areas I would erase.

One across my stomach,
two on my breasts
daggers on my face,
my legs, my ass,
finding layers of rotten meat
even knives couldn’t correct.
My body, a cracked canvas,
causing marker to spread through rivers of pores
mixing into a Picasso nightmare
for half an hour,
my grandfather’s voice set to repeat in my head:

“Sharon’s very smart. It’s too bad the others are so much more attractive.”

I climbed into the shower
and scrubbed my skin with a loofah
washing away the self-inflicted branding,
hoping the fat would dissolve
and rinse down the drain
with the dirty water and blacked soap suds,
so that when the family went out to eat
I wouldn’t look quite so nauseating.