I Feel Disproportionate

I Feel Disproportionate

by Samuel Busch




I feel disproportionate
the way a pre-teen is, like I was supposed to fill out this boy/femme body some time ago.
My strange muscular thighs and semi-toned calves, full hips and short body.
In short, I wish I would just be twinkie or otterish
Which is to say, tiny and thin or average height and stocky.
But here I am, chunky hips, short legs, and so I’ve been told, a pretty face.
Several people have told me that I’m intimidating
Which makes no sense to a 5’2 tiny dude who was socialized female.
Oh, and being told that my attractiveness is intimidating.
Not only do I feel like a squishy little Teddy bear
But the one that stays inside even after hibernation is over saying,
“Hey, yeah I don’t really want to come out right now. Like, I haven’t shaved in a while.”
Nobody cares what you look like, bitch, they’re all thinking about themselves.
“Yeah, ok, that sounds about right. I guess it’s time, huh?”
Spring is here and she’s waiting for me to grow, to step out this dark space, or just open the curtains.
Maybe I haven’t been trying hard enough to get a bigger shoe size or sharper jaw line or longer legs.

Maybe she’s just been waiting for me to see if I’d make the first move. She sits back, kissing two lips and inviting chrysanthemums to book and wine clubs or picnics on Sundays in the backyard.
She spent weekends like me, wrapped up in snow white blankets, suffocating under the cold, only to blossom and bloom from the pressure, and find I had new colours I didn’t know of. We’d swaddle ourselves in each other, Spring and Fall, rebirth and death. Both new beginnings.
Rain, showers, and seeds falling in sun.
Cool sun. Not the boiling kind that forces us out of winter skins, but nurturing and soft.

I’ll hold her. As little spoon as I am, I’ll hold her. Growth, death, into new; scattering of seeds and all.
She makes me pure again and reminds me small things are still whole, mustard seed still persists, tiny as it is, as minuscule, it’s still whole and complete.

And so am I. I am whole; small, misshapen in ways, but inherently good.
The atom makes up almost everything. No, everything. And it’s one of the smallest things we can fathom.
I may see my body as unattractive and thus useless but it can lift my sister.
It carries the dog’s food from the car and helps my mom with everything she needs.
It helps my dog up the stairs, my lumpy eleven year old bear sized lab, misshapen but perfect.
The first love of my life, this fatty, cyst-covered furball.
So maybe my rolls and lumps are ok. If I can love him the way I do, people will love me too.