And some days, I am none of these things. Some days, the things I believe about myself blow away in a cold wind and I find myself avoiding strangers' sight. I ask my friends: Tell me I'm not fat, or if I am that I'm still beautiful. Tell me that the things I believe about my own competence, worthiness, and promise are true, or if they are not that they are just over the horizon. Tell me that you love me; tell me that I'm not alone.
On these days, I wear sequins and rags, feathers and bones and warriors' paint. I stake my battered flag on a hill, and wait for the stinking blur of futility and regret and fear to rage past in glimpses of filthy fur and the rake of claws. Fuck them. Fuck them all. I may be only the queen of this mud-churned hill, but I'm not ready to lay down in the dirt yet.