I can’t promise you that I won’t cry at the grocery store.
Tears will burst out, as I stand in front of the bread aisle,
because carbs may just be the devil.
Because what am I,
if not tangled in bad choices and waistline fears?
I can’t promise that I won’t hide behind you,
because they “don’t carry beyond size L”,
and that I won’t run past the mirror.
After all, that’s easier than cussing at it.
Some days, I’ll hide platters of food under the corpses in my closet.
The stench would be unbearable–
the rotten body too,
showered last Saturday,
sinking in the bed.
I’ll look like parental loss and abandonment,
hidden behind loose clothes,
the shirt I haven’t washed since my dad left.
Standing in front of the candy aisle,
I’ll shout at the angels on my shoulder.
They’re both somewhat grey,
because it’s tough to tell the good and the bad,
when both laugh at my fall.
My cuticles will look as red as the ink,
with which I can’t tell apart dysphoria/dysmorphia,
Hands crossed to hide my chest,
shoulders hunched to hide.
The bonfire of Notre Dame scalds my stomach,
leaving ashes of identity behind.
I can’t promise that I won’t hate the one you love,
that my love language of roasting will not be only restricted to me.
I can’t promise to not call you crying from the changing room,
the doctor’s office,
my childhood bedroom,
or the grocery store.
I can’t promise that I’d be the girl…guy…person of your dreams,
that some days the shards of my collapsing sky
won’t reach you.
I can promise you everything,
except that the letter for my future self reads like an obituary.
Should I grab tissues from the store?
Eishita (they/she) is an English literature graduate from Delhi University. They spend their time writing about literature, queer culture, trauma, politics and films. Their Instagram is @eishitaa .