When I look at your body I see so much to love and I see much to be jealous of.
In all the places you expand and fill out, I am small, and in all the places where you curve, I am flat. I love the way you look. I love the way you feel even more. I wonder how you must see me and how I must feel to you. My body is not as beautiful, there is much less to explore. I must bore you. I must feel ordinary.
I have always felt lucky to have a girl who looks the way you do. You remind me of an ancient Greek sculpture or one of their Amazonian warriors. You are the kind of femininity that in made for bearing children, building societies, and carrying the burdens of life. You are strong and beautiful.
What could a woman, built like that, see in a little scrawny thing who couldn’t even grow decent hips?
In the dark of night when we lay with our bodies close, we feel how different we are and you tell me you wish you looked like me too. You wish you were smaller. You wish you weren’t such a big thing in this world. I never realized that when you are tall and strong people see you wherever you go and want you to always be tall and strong for them. Small bodies can hide in the places no one looks, the places right out in the open.
In that moment, I see I am lucky. I still wish I looked like you but I wish you could look like me too. Then I could be the one to surround you when you need to hide yourself away. I could make you feel small and protected the way you have for me by default. I could be strong and tall for you. I could keep the world from hurting you.
But I can’t be you and you can’t be me.
Instead, there in the dark, we offer each other bits of ourselves to keep tucked under the skin
And every morning I have another bit of you to keep me big and strong and you leave with another bit of me to help you hide.
Written in response to Death to Stock Writing #18: The Bodies We Meet