How I wish you’d stop telling me to love myself. Stop posturing and telling me things that I know you know aren’t true. I’ll think what I want about my body. If I want to be fat, I’ll just go ahead and be it. But I know that you know that I don’t really want that. You know that I know that I want to be skinny. So skinny that you’ll say something about it. So, you tell me to love my body. But I know that you know that that’s what you’re supposed to say. So, I smile and say that I do. I just don’t want these jiggly arms and love handles. We both laugh. Kinda awkwardly. And we both know that that’s what we both want. So, I tell you that you look great today. How beautiful you are. You smile. But you know that I know that you wish that you were a size 4. Even though you told me to love my body the way it is. And there we both are. Knowing. Yet not saying it. Well say it. Right now. Say it out loud. That you hate your body. That you wish you didn’t have cellulite. That you hate every damn mole on your body. That you wish your ass was smaller. That you wish you could have some sort of surgery to get rid of of the fat on your belly. That the wrinkles around your mouth and eyes make you want to throw something. That you wish that you could just stop eating, because you just want to eat everything. That you’d probably rather die than get old. Say it. Is anyone there? Can they hear you? Will they look at you strange? They won’t. Because we all know that she’s thinking it, too. And if we all just say it maybe we’ll just hear how absolutely sick we are. Something is wrong with us. Stop telling me to love myself. Stop. Just tell the truth. And then maybe we’ll start to believe something that we didn’t know.