They don’t see me.

They never have.

I’m beginning to believe they never will.

They don’t see the feet that carried me, shoeless with jagged bottoms through the broken window of a bedroom, safely to my escape.

They don’t see the calves that balled up and fortified by fear, kept me on my feet and agile after repeated attacks.

They don’t see the thighs that struggled to stay closed at the knees while those that swore to love me, forced their way in, desperate to control and diminish my wild spirit.

They see fat.

They don’t see the hips that brought forth life in the midst of chaos and tragedy.

They don’t see the vulnerable core, the belly that sustained countless blows from fists, elbows and feet of fury and alcohol infused rage, coming in like a kamikaze pilot, hitting it’s unsuspecting mark.

They see fat.

These men won’t see the chest so full of tenderness and hope, it loves deeply, indiscriminately, and without fear.

They see fat in the only place they deem acceptable, and fantasize about fucking me, as long as we don’t acknowledge that they’re into me, and I know that it didn’t mean anything.

They see fat.

These men won’t see a neck eager to release words of love and altruism. They don’t hear the song that escapes in the moments I forget their critical gaze.

 They don’t see the throat that held it’s shape under the boot of it’s lover, or his cigarette stained hands, clasped around it in an effort to quell self-evident truths.

They see fat.

They won’t see the face that still holds curiosity and wonder for what might be to come. They won’t see the cuts, the black eyes, and ear blackened from trauma. They won’t see the pleading in my eyes for mercy, for understanding, for love.

They see fat.

They won’t see these arms, having been battered, covered in finger bruises from a herculean effort to wield control. Arms that fought back, even when the odds were so abundantly stacked against them. Arms so ready to cradle and comfort, so open to possibility and love. Arms that help carry those that occupy my heart, in times of need.

They see only, fat.

They don’t see the night terrors, the sweats, or the panic that rises at the most inopportune moments. They don’t see the irrational fear of being assaulted from behind while walking alone, or the isolation that often accompanies these experiences.

These men will never see all the ways you tried to comfort yourself with no tools, no safety and no support. The nights under the living room blanket, trying desperately to fill the fist shaped holes that ravage your lonely, neglected, and forgotten fattening body.

There is no glimpse of the journey, my futile effort to protect myself from being the landing pad for another angry mans blind rage. Slowly and methodically I built this wall of flesh between me and everyone else. It would keep me invisible to such dangers, and something I had never been.

Safe.

But in the end the jokes on me.  In spite of the soft unassuming wall I have built, my warmth still radiating below seemingly has only enough light emanating to attract the same men over and over again.  

The men I want to see me. The ones who would love me, respect me, appreciate me..

They don’t see me.

They never have.

I believe they never will.

But then…

But then.

What happens when I awaken to the understanding of my own worth?

Does it show? Does it radiate off of me, from within me?

Does it register on sight, is it obvious like a radical makeover? Do I wear it like a new layer of skin growing shiny and red, healing after injury?

Does knowing my worth mean my confidence reigns supreme?

Am I no longer plagued by the nasty voice in my head reminding me I am not good enough, or loveable? Does she finally cease her incessant attacks and begin to build me up, rather than tear me down?

Are we re-integrated, she and I for, a common good?

Once sworn adversaries, united in a fight no longer for mere survival, but to really live.

Indeed.

We rise together from the ashes, a phoenix to eclipse the emotional vandalism of the past.

We emerge able to see ourselves with some of the same compassion with which we see others.

I am reminded by the once woeful and hateful little voice

To be gentle with myself.