Photo: © Depositphotos.com/jukai5
Written by Lynn Wilcott

You hear him in between songs on your playlist.

Ayo, I like that fat ass…

You mistakenly glance a bit behind you where the voice came from, and then remember that he doesn’t deserve the attention. Your face scowls a bit and you try to refocus on your walk to the train.

…fat bitch…

And another harder layer forms over your skin, crisscrossing its pattern over the last. These latticed callouses have been building up for as long as you can remember. Overhearing your mother chatting with a friend on the phone, thinking you can’t hear her when she says no, she’s…she’s big. Real big. In dance class, when for a time you were the cute pudgy one…and now you’re the one who probably won’t make it much further, now that Madame can see the swelling of breasts and hips and that once adorable tummy roll is now undesirable beneath a leotard. You start to calcify your exterior, your armor now swaths of black fabric, a snarly, snarky teenager. You brandish the horn that is just starting to form in your brain – jabbing back insults and taking down the other animals in the classroom – and then you retreat to your sanctuary, listen to sad music and angrily write through the tears that tan your hide even further.

But you have such a pretty face…no, you’re not fat, you’re beautiful…have you tried eating less and exercising more? You did. And the times you weren’t in the hospital from dehydration and malnutrition were spent getting stronger. You didn’t eat? But you must love food! And stronger.  Well, you need to change, you need to be healthy. And quieter. And more gray. Your feet flatten to the point where you could crush bones with a step. Your brain horn has now matured into an eviscerating weapon. But you lumber. Your skin is now a suit of armor, and your once dancing grace now has one of two purposes: standing in the background or attacking.

But years of attacking is tiring. You have aged more quickly. Your eyes are now sunken beneath drooping, hooded lids. Your once proud horn dips low to the ground. The tight thickness of your skin redirects your limbs, you plod instead of strut. You can’t remember the last time you showed your teeth, in humor or in anger.

You slowly enter your office and head to the company refrigerator. As you open the door to put your lunch inside, you see Jen bouncing in. Ooh, your lunch looks so healthy! Good for you!

You sit down at your desk and you feel the stitching of another layer.

***

Lynn Wilcott can save your life. Or make you look like you lost it.