I know I’m just an object.

An object to be used and thrown away.

So I changed the packaging.

Surrounded myself with anti-objects.

Punched the sky with purple hair.

Filled the space with bigger thighs.

Wore what I wanted and didn’t care.

Surrounded myself with my loved body – instead of just any body.

My own body held my ground and kept you away.

But the objectification is still there.

Societally imposed guilt for owning my body fills my mouth with bile.

I had hoped you were different.

Want me for who I am.

I won’t pose a “less-fat” angle to still get your gaze.

You only care about naked without clothes.

If you can’t see me as a whole you can’t see me.

I’m already naked with my clothes on.

Because I’ve trusted you.

I’m naked when I talk to you.

I’m naked when I eat with you.

I’m naked when I walk with you.

I’m naked when I give my time.

I’m naked when I tell truths.

I’m naked.

But you can’t see me.