by Murewa Olubela
Ilustration by Naddya Oluoch.
The slabs of my midsection, the protruding arches
of my sides, the map bumps.
In the dark, my form’s perfect,
my shape’s distinct, my face
a tale of failed old money, not fat.
Lights on, I trail my hands
to my mound, hovering
above the triangle devoid of curls.
it extends. Fat.
My gaze drops to my stomach.
The visible demarcation, a trophy
of three years relapse from years
of fitness. Not too nice fat.
The soft contours cries for help.
I stare at my breasts. The one fat
that makes sense. A handful
instead of the perky titsbud it once was.
I cup my right, feeling its
It fits perfectly, full, good