Fat Girl

I see the Fat Girl
coming slowly
appearing in the hips
and thighs,
anxious for seven-layer bars
and butterscotch
Christmas cookies.

While she is
pleasant enough,
(some would agrue,
undeniably,
"She's jolly!")
She's not the person
I want to be around,
to spend time with,
to share my cookies with.

I'd rather sit
with the girl
who worked so hard,
to shed
the outer layer,
of comfort,
denial,
of hidden consequences
and appearance.

The one who thought
about everything,
took responsibilities
and willpower, and
made them hers.

She's still there.
I can see her if
I look hard enough.
She is the happy one;
not the other.

I don't want to lose her,
after I've fought
so hard
to find her.