Raking eyes sweep over my reflection,

A quick glance and nothing.

A deeper inspection and I stop at my midriff.

Scrutinizing my stomach,

Turning from side to side,

Tallying what I see.

I feel as if I am in a maze of mirrors,

An illusion of sorts, staring back at me—

But the reality is much worse.

The skin hangs loose,

Reminding me of dough in need of kneading.

Prominent flab—looking as if I am still pregnant—

Just suspended there,

Beneath the fabric of my clothes,

Drawing all eyes.

Stretch marks mar my body,

Branching up past my belly button,

Down my hips, to my thighs.

Purple and pink lines,

Twisting and writhing—

How could anyone find this attractive?

As if sensing my distaste with them,

They begin to itch—

And itch, and itch,

Making them more unbearable to regard.

Donning a shirt, I hide away the marks.

With each passing day, though,

My confidence returns.

Baggy shirts—

They’re almost forgotten.

Comfort in my own skin—

It’s exhilarating—

To feel that again.

Someday, someday soon,

I hope I will love them wholly.

Today, however, is not that day.