Waking Up Fat

fio1073 edit

Illustration by Fiorella Morzi

I love the way the sun shines through my blinds and onto my skin when I wake up in the morning.
The light latches onto each stretch-marked curve in a way that says “I love being close to you.”
I move my fingers from freckle to freckle.
Connecting the dots, I see my self-image.
I love the way my body spreads, claiming a space for its own.
I revel in the warmth at the meeting of my inner thighs.
I yawn, stretch, and feel the way my body moves with me.
I am malleable, but strong.
I am the physical embodiment of my comfort.
My tousled hair falls over my left shoulder onto my chest, framing me.
There is so much of me to love.
I trace the shy blue vein through the pale skin of my arm.
I am present.
I lay my hands flat against my sides, running them down the width of my hips.
I feel at home in my offensive softness.
I love waking up fat.