Poetry: Outcast Dykes

Title (as given to the record by the creator): Outcast Dykes
Date(s) of creation: Issue 5: April 1996
Creator / author / publisher: eMRobinson, FaT GiRL
Physical description:
page includes text of a poem
Reference #: FG5-059
Links: [ PDF ]

Outcast Dykes


She said, “Love me, love my thighs.”

Her soft and wrinkly rounded, sagging

thighs are filled with butter fat–the sweet cream

that rises to the surface.

I can take hold of them easily

and cushion my head as I sink into her. 

I said, “I will love your thighs.

They are just like mine. But with me

comes my belly.”

She thinks about how it overflows,

folding against itself, rolling under my clothes. 

It’s pale, doughy and heavy,

clumsily moveable and poorly hidden.

When she seeks, she finds

and finds and finds.

She said, “I will love your belly.

It’s just like mine. But promise me 

you won’t laugh at my arms.”

And I said, “Promise me you won’t criticize

my double chin.”

How can we criticize each other

for the same faults? the same obvious defects?

Fat is bad at hiding. It prefers to be noticed, 

taunting thin bodies with malnourished minds

to throw sharp darts, as if we can be deflated,

as if we should be deflated,

as if we owe them gratitude for humiliation.

Not everyone needs to count their ounces

of body fat on one hand or even two.

But in our likeness, the outcast sameness, 

we struggle with acceptance of ourselves.

I can love her thighs more easily

than I can love my own.

So we work at loving ourselves

while our soft bodies comfortably melt together,

becoming one

(and a half).

Although, our four breasts are equal to the weight

of ten. That’s more to enjoy for each of us,

Outcast Dykes.