The Weight She Gives Me

“You been eating good, huh?”
She says it with a chuckle,
but I hear the verdict
in her eyes,
measured like scales
that don’t ever read kindness.

I look in the mirror,
towel slipping—
there it is again:
that soft fold
above my jeans,
that dinner-roll curve
no one asked for,
no one praises.

It jiggles when I laugh.
So I stop laughing.

Mama says it like she’s helping,
like the shame
is some kind of inheritance
she meant to pass down.
And I take it—
quiet,
tight in the throat,
sweeter than sugar
but heavier than truth.

I pinch it
in front of the mirror.
Roll it between fingers
like dough
I never asked to knead.
Call it ugly.
Call it mine.
Call it “I’ll start tomorrow.”

I suck in my stomach
like it’s a sin.
Smile like it ain’t killing me.
But some days,
I want to love this body
like it’s sacred.
Like these thick thighs were carved
by God’s own hands.
Like this belly
was a story
not a stain.

Mama meant well.
But so did I.
And I’m still learning
how to call myself
enough
before the world
or her mouth
gets there first.