We don’t expect ghost stories to make sense. Neither do eating disorders. That’s not the point of either thing.
Feet raging against the floor,
Hips commanding the music–
You should see me when I’m dancing.
You should see me when all the forces of nature I am awake.
You should see me when I make spectators of every one of my demons,
The inertia of my turns pinning them against the wall.
Bodies like this aren’t celebrated by cameras,
Are hidden in the spines of glossy magazines.
I am too much woman for such a small world.
My jiggly thighs,
Ones so ravenous they swallow my shorts.
I refuse to ruin my groove by pulling them down.
Too many years,
Too many songs,
Too many dancefloors, I wasted my joy in hiding.
My energy belonged to my starvation, my purging, my insecurities.
You should see me on the dancefloor.
That’s where you see my recovery–
The softness of my body is a symphony in motion.
The percussion of my feet against the floor rivals any drumline.
Every song is my song when I’m not starving.
And my smile, my energy,
All of it,
exclaims, “How lucky am I to have lived through everything to be this?”