Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the tag “self-esteem”

The Creature Within

The rumble of the thunder reminds me

that I used to be fierce

I felt the fire in my belly

and I was strong and unafraid

How long has it been now

since I was that person

I can’t recall

She still resides within me

and rears her head

now and then

only to disappear again

when the anxiety returns

 

Whitewash

It all comes back to black

the color of rot and death

and a murder of crows

and of my insides

since I came across you

I want so much to shed the cloak of it

and experience other colors again

like red

the red of your blood

flowing from your nose

as my fist connects with it

gushing from your head

as the perfectly timed swing of my bat unites with your thick skull

dropping a trail from your bottom lip

as the back of my hand meets your lying mouth

but still

the red cannot compete with the black

so I wait for a source of light

to wash over me

and dilute it

and make it gray

Cleaning Day

i scrub and scrub and scrub

my skin wears thin

from the scraping of the brillo pad

it makes no difference

i am still dirty

i add cleanser

i am still not clean

i put the bleach bottle to my lips

and drink

because i realize the dirtiness

has penetrated my soul

oh how it burns on the way down

and i know that must mean it’s working

but it doesn’t clean me

and only leaves a hole the size of a quarter in my stomach

you stupid bitch

i say to myself in the mirror

you disgust me

the scars he left have dug their filthy tendrils

too deeply into me

they are ingrained

maybe he was right

no one else will ever love me

The Hex that is You

smoke

 

you’re all just smoke and mirrors

and I choke in your presence

fearing you’re

a mere reflection of the worst parts of me

and that

maybe

I’ve conjured you into being

like some sort of voodoo priestess

I have drawn you to me

by being broken and bent

and you

seeing all the worst in me

know what I will do for love

or that thing

you disguise as love

dress it up

teach it to speak more better

(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)

take it out on parade

regardless

it never fails to be what it is

a sick, twisted display of your narcissism

 

What Lies Within Us

What is the flaw within us

that doesn’t believe we are good enough

for good love

Why is it easier to accept

the love

which isn’t really love

but merely sickness masquerading

We give them the benefit of the doubt

because we believe

we can see the possibilitiesĀ inside them

of which there are none

and even if there were potential

it’s not up to us to nurture them

Brother of mine

do not make the same mistakes I have made

it will not get better

but only worse every time

until it will culminate

into something she can’t take back

Run away from her little brother

as fast as you can

as far as you can

It may be lonely for awhile

but not as lonely as a tomb

 

 

 

Pick, Pick, Pick

prometheus

 

 

I think I’ve reached my breaking point with everything–this blog, Twitter, Facebook.

It’s like all of them only continue to prove to me, that I’m less than everyone else.

I’m not as good a writer as all these other people.

I’m not as funny as these other people.

I don’t fit in.

I stand out.

I’m too smart.

I’m not smart enough.

I’m too liberal.

I’m not fearful enough of absolutely every fucking thing around me.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

That’s what all of it screams.

As I compare follower numbers, and likes, and retweets.

You know, I remember a time, not so long ago, when I liked myself.

I thought I was a pretty cool chick.

I thought I was well read, and creative, and attractive, and funny.

And then social media crept in.

And now I don’t feel those things anymore.

I feel constantly judged for everything I post, or re-post, or comment.

It’s like I’m Prometheus, atop a social media rock, and my self-esteem is constantly being picked at, until one day there will be nothing left.

Am I meant to suffer this torture?

It’s all at my own hand.

I can end it. I can leave all of these places and escape back into the real world.

Read real books.

Talk to real people.

Write on real pages.

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

Oh yes, you do, I whisper to myself in the mirror.

 

 

 

The Best Kind Of Valentine

I’m 8 years old and imagine the Valentine I receive from the cute boy in the class was specially made for me, but mine looks just like all the others.

I’m 17 years old and hope against hope they’ll call my name over the intercom to come to the office on Valentine’s Day because I know that will mean I got flowers or a balloon from a guy, but it never happens.

I’m 28 years old and my husband brings me flowers and chocolates and a card, but the words have no meaning because our relationship has been over almost since it began.

I’m 37 years old and my boyfriend buys me perfume and a balloon and he leaves it outside my door because I’ve kicked him out again, trying to break free of his emotional abuse.

I’m 47 years old and I buy myself a steak and a good bottle of whiskey and a funky new hair color to try because I deserve good things and every girl needs to be her own Valentine.

 

bee

The Theory of Disease

apathy has settled in my heart

and in my bones

 

like a rare form of cancer

it eats at every cell of my being

 

it burrows into my marrow

consuming all I believed to be good

 

about you

about me

about the world

 

indifference is a sheath for my feelings

numbing any twinges of caring

but never halting the progression of my sickness

 

it will eat me up from the inside and leave nothing

but a shell

 

it was you

and you

and you

and even you

who gave me this disease

who left me with these symptoms

 

indicative of a greater malady

 

which left untreated

can bring about

the downfall of society

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Threadbare

pick

pick pick pick

at it

pull

pull it apart

threads woven

unraveled

destructed

ripped

yanked

frayed

tattered

holes remain

which you hope can be

patched

Work Desk Confessions of Being a Triflin’ Ho

There’s something I must confess. I’m a bit of a whore. Or as I like to call it, a “hoor”. It’s pronounced like this hoo-er.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m a totally faithful girlfriend! I’m not saying I’m that kind of a hoor. It’s worse.

I’m an attention hoor. There it is. Right there in black and white.

My name’s Fat Bottom Girl, and I’m an attention hoor.

Man it’s good to get that out there in the open. I know you never would’ve been able to tell I was an attention hoor if I hadn’t just come out and told you.

Oh, you knew? What gave me away?? The fact I’m a blogger?

Seriously, if you blog, you’ve got to admit you’ve probably got a little attention hoor lurking in you too. Even if like me, you’re anonymous and don’t reveal yourself on your blog, your little tiny attention hoor inside is being fed by clicks and comments.

I feed my attention hoor here and on my personal Facebook account. And Twitter. And now Tumblr. Bloody fucking hell, where will it stop??

But here’s the problem. I fucking hate Facebook. I hate the religious crap, I hate the political crap, I hate the 100 selfies some people feel the need to share of themselves in bikinis because they need to feed the really big attention hoor inside them, I hate the re-shares of stupid shit that was popular two years ago, I hate people’s need to profess their love for their spouse on there as opposed to fucking walking across the room to the Barcolounger their husband’s lazy ass is sitting in with the Natty Light can in their hand and fucking telling them in person, I hate pictures of the fucking goulash you had for dinner, or pictures of the guy with the clap-trot dick rot disease who would be healed if he gets a million likes.

Fuck. It’s exhausting. It’s just fucking exhausting. I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to take it off my phone. I want to shut it down. I want to walk away from it and not worry about missing out on somebody’s kid doing their first big girl doodle in the princess potty.

I just want to be done with Facebook.

But I can’t. Because sometimes, Facebook feeds my attention hoor. Sometimes if I’m feeling especially bloated and unloved, I can get dolled up in my attention hoor makeup and post a selfie and get morsels to fill me up. I can post pics of a project I’ve done and get kudos for being a chick and knowing how to use power tools.

I’m an addict and I can’t stop.

Why can’t MySpace be cool again??

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