My eyes water, my hands shake. While the distaste on my tongue crawls to the back of my throat with a sting that leaves me on my knees. My fingers pluck against my skin, crawling with the thought of ripples of thickness hugging my body with the word THIN, screaming from pages of ink-blotted papers and the black holes of a hater's distaste. I tug on the clothes draped over my body and arms kept to my sides hiding the ever so curious mounds No matter where I am, I am exposed to them. They'll judge me for my girth and I know this too well from the disgust from the white and black and tan canvases of people that surround me. Their judgment kills me but doesn't make me stronger. It kicks and punches and tears at the raw wounds. Wounds of hurt. But what I see. What I feel. Is all me. They merely give us a template of what we are. What I am. It's not how they look at me but how I look into the reflection. It's not they who hit me with words of hate, but I who hit myself with cruelty.