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Description
They called me The White Whale.

I dreamed of carving off my blubber,

perhaps learning to breathe

for minutes at a time

so I could sing,

because whales are elusive.

The ocean is vast. I could have lived

without another pinch, another poke, another

he only loves you for your tits. Get a tan,

go for a jog, are you gonna eat

or assimilate?

Their harpoons were steady.

They had no remorse, a close friend told me,

"I just want you to be healthy." She braided my hair,

complimented the color, my eyes a drizzle,

said there was a mermaid

hiding in my shape,

I started smoking the next day.

I used to pace from the cabinet

to the basement with armfuls of confections,

I hid behind our yellow shed and guzzled

black coffee, nicotine, green tea, THC,

with giddiness turned vibrant,

all colors shook,

the first person to notice

said he didn't know I could look so good.

I found my cheekbones, polished my scales,

glittered and flitted and flirted and swam

in schools of gaping groupers,

"Krea. Oh, Krea.

You should be modeling."

My hair started thinning

the night before the play I was cast in

because the director thought I looked delicate

like a seashell, she wanted a work of aesthetics,

I'd only been maids and mothers,

not a star. A centerpiece,

a mermaid,

Ariel's head was bigger than her waist.

Makeup hid the disease. Smiles,

the fatigue. I winded myself and wondered

if I had grown gills, if I could sink away,

but on the stairs I fainted,

woke up to a doctor

who asked,

"What was the last thing you ate?"

"I don't know."

"When do you think that was?"

"I don't remember."

Recovery began

in the tears of my mother,

a sob that pierced and echoed,

how whales locate each other and

I wondered why it hurt to be

something I admired,

but I couldn't be her again.

The fat one. I ate half my meals,

lied in my journal, walked down the halls

in silk dresses, tight jeans, shimmery veils,

with turquoise on my fingers,

opals for toenails,

until the day my cousin asked

how I lost weight.

She was 14. She had hips

that magazines coveted, a waist,

manicured brows, and she said I was perfect.

I looked back into the mirror and saw

that I never changed,

only shrank,

and mermaids were just fairytales

for little girls to compare

themselves to,

but whales.

Whales were maternal

and endangered and gentle,

they loved and breathed without

a thought to their appearance

on their reflective sky,

I threw away my scale

and told her it was a matter of

no importance,

the next morning,

I was beautiful for the first time,

even if I ate a whole bowl of cereal

and took a long nap after.

Description
They called me The White Whale.

I dreamed of carving off my blubber,

perhaps learning to breathe

for minutes at a time

so I could sing,

because whales are elusive.

The ocean is vast. I could have lived

without another pinch, another poke, another

he only loves you for your tits. Get a tan,

go for a jog, are you gonna eat

or assimilate?

Their harpoons were steady.

They had no remorse, a close friend told me,

"I just want you to be healthy." She braided my hair,

complimented the color, my eyes a drizzle,

said there was a mermaid

hiding in my shape,

I started smoking the next day.

I used to pace from the cabinet

to the basement with armfuls of confections,

I hid behind our yellow shed and guzzled

black coffee, nicotine, green tea, THC,

with giddiness turned vibrant,

all colors shook,

the first person to notice

said he didn't know I could look so good.

I found my cheekbones, polished my scales,

glittered and flitted and flirted and swam

in schools of gaping groupers,

"Krea. Oh, Krea.

You should be modeling."

My hair started thinning

the night before the play I was cast in

because the director thought I looked delicate

like a seashell, she wanted a work of aesthetics,

I'd only been maids and mothers,

not a star. A centerpiece,

a mermaid,

Ariel's head was bigger than her waist.

Makeup hid the disease. Smiles,

the fatigue. I winded myself and wondered

if I had grown gills, if I could sink away,

but on the stairs I fainted,

woke up to a doctor

who asked,

"What was the last thing you ate?"

"I don't know."

"When do you think that was?"

"I don't remember."

Recovery began

in the tears of my mother,

a sob that pierced and echoed,

how whales locate each other and

I wondered why it hurt to be

something I admired,

but I couldn't be her again.

The fat one. I ate half my meals,

lied in my journal, walked down the halls

in silk dresses, tight jeans, shimmery veils,

with turquoise on my fingers,

opals for toenails,

until the day my cousin asked

how I lost weight.

She was 14. She had hips

that magazines coveted, a waist,

manicured brows, and she said I was perfect.

I looked back into the mirror and saw

that I never changed,

only shrank,

and mermaids were just fairytales

for little girls to compare

themselves to,

but whales.

Whales were maternal

and endangered and gentle,

they loved and breathed without

a thought to their appearance

on their reflective sky,

I threw away my scale

and told her it was a matter of

no importance,

the next morning,

I was beautiful for the first time,

even if I ate a whole bowl of cereal

and took a long nap after.