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.

I pull—

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