I have these little tiny circles in my stomach. Or, by stomach, I mean coating my abdomen. Each represents every little failure of my life. These little tiny circles have friends. They breed. Everyday they fuck themselves, they stick to eachother and never let go. Every one is a mistake I made. An extra piece of popcorn. A handful of raspberries. A Girl Scout cookie. Mistake after mistake. Pathetic.
They bubble and grow, filling in my calfs and thighs, padding my hips, grazing the bones beneath my chin. Like acid burning into me, everyday I feel their pain.
My mother hates them. My father hates them. My boyfriend hates them. I hate them.
My little bubbles will never go away. Medically, they cannot, unless I truly decide to be dead. They always tell you to love yourself. I hate these little bubbles, a part of me. How could I ever love my acid burning lumpy little mistakes.