you wanted, you want

By Ella Baker

You’re hungry. It’s lunchtime, and you’re scrolling through Instagram on your phone. There’s someone pretty on there, and you’re jealous of them in a way that is so sudden—so helpless. It hurts. If your breasts were little, like that, they would not jump whenever you danced. If your thighs were thin, like that, there would be a bold gap between them. Look at her shoulders. Look at that ass. You shove your phone into the pocket of your backpack and stare down today’s plate of sweet potato fries. No longer appetizing. Jealousy skips rightly to anger, and so you curse your parents. You think, they’re the ones that graced you with this thick-boned, goddamned body.  

You’re hungry, and you’re at long last fed up with it. This anger, something that’s been brewing. This anger, only sudden because you’ve spent so long neglecting it. This morning, you stirred with strangely cruel clarity—you could see the whole truth of yourself for the first time: You are big. You are too big. Why have you been dancing around this aspect of yourself for so long? You must know that change comes not from coddling. You must know all of this, all of it, somewhere behind those years and bright eyes.  

You’re hungry. HAPPY FRIDAY, says the thin-wire basket of many chips. Someone kind has left them for the lot of you, but one look at that basket and the inside of you screams. Salt and vinegar, sour cream and onion. This feels like the decision of all decisions. Two weeks ago, you would have eaten them as soon as you wanted, but you’re trying to change. 

You’re hungry. You think, lots of people start their day with only an apple. You think, lots of people are beautiful. Why does it hurt so much to look at them? 

You’re hungry. It’s three PM on a Thursday, and your friend is eating M&M’s beside you. She’s pretty. The M&Ms sound so delicious, crunching between her teeth. You want, and you want, and you’re jealous of so many little things at once—of her easy, think-less consumption, of her thighs and narrow hands. You think, she was born lucky. You think, I don’t know how to eat without aching.  

You’re hungry, but there’s something you’ve noticed. When you drink coffee, your stomach stops begging for things. You drink three cups a day. Sometimes, you can make it until the evening without one bite.  

You’re hungry, you’re dizzy, and you’ve never been so proud. You spend thirty minutes scrolling through your camera roll, looking at pictures of yourself from last summer. You spend another fifteen staring your shape down in the mirror. You’ve changed. Now, your shoulder blades cling to your skin, sitting beneath it like wires. Now, when you smile, your chin does not hang in that loose, terrible way. And so your stomach sings its greedy song, deep and familiar. You think, I’ve taken control. You think.  

You’re hungry, and you’re used to it. The way it boils. Every note. Your head is softer, your face is sharper. You can’t remember much of anything from yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that, but you do remember the way cellulite used to stain your thighs. Just a few months ago. You’re obsessed with its absence. Also, you can wrap your hand all the way around your right wrist, easily. Also, you can zip up that one red dress, all by yourself. Your lips crack when you brush your teeth, and at night, it’s hard to keep your eyes closed.  

You’re hungry. You’re visiting home, and your mother makes you lots of food. Cheesy potatoes with onions. Pierogies. Cherry cobbler. Your favorite things. It hurts, more than a little, and you don’t really know what to do. She just keeps smiling.  

You’re hungry, you’re passionate. You’re crying and you can’t stop. You think, why does this feel so good? You think, I’ve found a body beneath all that old flesh. Gangly limbs. Ghostly being. You’ve stopped looking in the mirror so much, oh, it does not matter what you see.  

You’re hungry, but you just wanted to be beautiful.