What I hate most are rainy afternoons;
making me introspective,
making me hate.

What I hate most is the way men look at my legs when I wear shorts.
They see pale, long, warm things meant to be tangled up in bedsheets.
They see innocence that they can make
and take.
They don’t see me.

What I hate most is the way pretty clothes feel,
pinching my thighs,
squishing my gut,
chafing my shoulders.
My buttons glimmer, asking the dreaded question:
style or oxygen?

What I hate most are the skinny girls and their Twitter feeds
telling me that my size does not define me
before informing me of exactly what does.

What I hate most is thinspo.
Thin inspiration.
Cake or collarbones?
Pizza or a thigh gap?
Chocolate or hip bones?
I’m not inspired.

What I hate most is the paradox
of what I hate most
being hate itself.