Personal, but No Longer Confidential

My Enemy

I look into the mirror, just before my shower,

And I see everything.

I see feet that are too wide,

Calves that are too muscular,

Knees that can’t carry all the weight.

I see stubby thighs that jiggle when I make my way to the bathroom.

I see a stomach that would make even a sumo wrestler uneasy.

My breasts they hang, lop-sided, off of my chest.

My neck has become compensation for the extra weight upon my face.

The double chin, that’s my favorite.

It’s a sign of my fateful sin.

And, the face, oh that ungodly face,

With a permanent scowl that borders on dictatorial.

And, the hair that lays, limp and long.

It sits and waits to be pampered, and has no volume of its own.


Hatred rushes through me.

It overtakes my mind, and my soul.

For one minute, I feel like my life is spiraling out of control.

For a brief moment, I feel unworthy of showing my face to the world;

I feel unworthy of leaving my room.


My enemy challenges me to a duel.

We take our stance and prepare for battle.

Stares are met with stares,

Grimace with grimace.


In her hand, a razorblade,

Just sharp enough to break the skin.

No, in my hand, a razorblade.



No, I,

No, the blade

Finds my inner thigh.

The edge is cool and sharp.

Just one move, and it will break the skin.

Do it,

She says.

Just one flick of the wrist

I will feel something with just one flick of the wrist.


No, I

Cannot do it.

The blade falls to the floor,



My enemy’s eyes boil with rage.

She is defeated.




Only to return tomorrow.

Each day, a battle rages inside of me.

Each day, I am triumphant.


Gone is the razor,

But the hatred of my enemy rages on.
















Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s