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Spring makes even the deadest hearts
feel some stirring, a longing for New,
a chance to shed winter pounds, old skin
and be some long-lost shade of willow.
I've spent the last six years wrapped gray
in shadows, swallowing comfortable padding,
dulled and dowdy, dressing myself down
publicly invisible.
I feel as ugly as I've made myself become.
I don't want "I love you's", or bewitchments,
or to summarize my life in dating rituals
of, "Tell me something about yourself,"
while being silently judged for flaws
or searched for traits of compatibility.
FAT is my defiance, as well as an anchor
to keep me from wanting too much,
dreaming too big, or making myself
too vulnerable.

But when those first few tiny flowers push
through the cold dirt, sometimes it feels
like they're breaking out of my own heart.