I've got a big belly not swollen enough to be carrying a child;
My hands aren't pudgy enough to belong to a medieval merchant's wife.
My thighs are not petulant enough to hide the mass of criss-crosses on my flesh;
My back has rolls that make me spill out of my dress.
My face is full--not of joy but the worrisome look
Of not fitting into the image painted by the society of what I should resemble.
I'm not the strong woman in the mirror as I'd aspired to be--
My eyes are wide and scared of being embarrassed for being too big for the room;
And yet my heart is too big to accommodate it all.