Well, I do look old.

I have grown uglier to myself. Perhaps because I don't eat cake anymore. Perhaps the attempts to save myself are just suspending a deeply unchanged mind. Sometimes in the morning I can decide if I am right or wrong, but there are still a lot of days when I do not even bother to wake up during the sun. There is such twisted power in being this lost.

I'm reading all of these fat acceptance books, and being inspired by the fuck you's of Beth Ditto. To let her make me dance. But, I'm also actively trying to mold my body into the vessel I need it to be.

Change and acceptance do not seem to get along, and thus my words are similarly placed. Reminds me of my oil to your water. This volatile contradiction we form like a storm in a bubble. All denials fail when drips manage to break free. 

The camera lens seems to sense my turmoil and I am running out of shapes to break my body into. There are rolls and rolls of film, all with my dirty lips burned into them, but nothing to show. I miss the girl who looked back at me. I miss the hands of hers, sewn. She was my partner in self-love.

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