living in a dramatic body

a quick ramble on when being "too much" is not a choice.

43. 37. 49.

43 bust.

37 waist.

49 hip.

Size L on top. XL on bottom. Unless it’s also L. And sometimes the top is M. Or S. Damn girl! Occasionally XXL. 16. But 14 fits the waist better. Such a good problem to have. Jump in. Your body’s tea! Tuck in. Readjust. Shoulders up. Suck it in. Get stared at. Get yelled at. Be grateful. What were you thinking?

Sometimes, I hate my body. No matter how it is dressed, what I adorn it with, or what state it is in, it will always have the same message. My body only seems to know how to say “look at me”.

Shirts that tighten around my bust fall loose on my waist, bunching and rolling where the curve of my hip begins. Jeans, skirts, even sweatpants can’t help but accentuate my rear and all of its movements. My body performs regardless of its costume to an audience I did not consent to seat. This panopticism of my form, this surveillance of my curvature only continues. No matter what I do, I am a spectacle.

I shouldn’t complain. So many people think I am beautiful, and they tell me so. Shouldn’t this be the validation I have wanted for so long? I should be grateful for the stares and the comments. For so long, I had this belief that was undeserving of love or unattractive, which are probably two different things but don’t feel like they are. If my body really is beautiful, I shouldn’t be upset that it’s given this treatment. I wasn’t groped in the club because I was ugly.

But my hips don’t come with a label saying “help yourself” or “I’m okay with this”. They’re just the same skin and fat and muscle and bone that someone uses to assert themselves onto me. I understand if you can’t help but look, I can’t help but live in this body. You can choose where your eyes move. I can’t choose how my body distributes itself.

Curves are not consent. My words are. And unless you wish to look at me in the eyes rather than in the ass, then I do not give it.