She fills the frame, picture and mirror,
her hips broad and round.
A full belly and wide back.
A soft body– no sharpness in silhouette.

She is too big.

She has a pretty face, she’s told– she learned–
it’s such a shame her pretty face
does not match her body.
She could be beautiful, desirable,
wanted,
necessary.
If only she would fit.

But her stride does not keep rhythm
with the beating of men’s hearts.
The curve of her thighs does not invoke
a stammer or wanton smile in passerby.

She is too big to be loved.
Too big to slip into a crumpled dress shirt
and start his coffee while he still sleeps.
Too big to slide onto his lap
and steal a salty kiss during breakfast.

She is too big to be loved.
Too big to fit into the crook
of a lover’s arm on summer nights
and winter afternoons.

Too big to walk beside him on city streets,
because the sidewalk won’t allow
the mismatch of her girth and his love.
She is too big

to be loved like other girls.
The size of her jeans dictates
the value of her spirit.
The waistband of her skirt overrides
the size of her heart.

She is too big to know love–
too big to know the feeling of being wanted
unless it’s by a man who tells her that “it’s okay–
I like thick girls” behind the cover of the internet.

She is too big to be loved.
She is too big to be worthy of love.
She is too big to be worthy.

She is too big.