The Curve Ball

It was always either too hot or too cold in her troubled mind.

And no amount of tossing or turning could ever

tucker her out enough for her to tuck her self in,

at night her mind was a race car that never ran out of gas,

running round and round on

the same old track


the same old memories.


the same old words.

The same words he used when he traded her in for a girl,

who was twenty pounds lighter.




Three letters that devoured every beautiful place left in her mind.

Three letters they used to brand her, as if she was the worlds property.

Three letters she engraved onto her hips,

so when denim rubbed against raw skin she would remember to skip dinner that night,

because she was forced to believe that beautiful looked like

skin pulled tight over a hollow skeleton.

She thought she had to mold herself into the perfect cookie cuter girl.

That beauty came in only one size:

extra small,

in one shape:


She took her definition of beautiful from

Webster's Dictionary for the Corrupted Society,

because beauty was never about how much you weighed,

or the size jeans you wore.

It used to be in the eye of the beholder,

and somewhere down this crooked line of humanity that all changed.

Curvy was out and skeletons were in,

But darling you are the curve ball we are throwing at society.

You are the girl with beautiful wide hips and filling features,

you are the girl with the power to change the course of history.

Ignore the scale and be the girl you were meant to be.


Erica Diane


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