My arms are no longer slender. My waist extends farther into a bloated protruding belly. The folds at my back are now more pronounced, each lump as thick as freshly baked agege bread. There are bumps on my forehead, small elevated bumps that leave black spots in their wake. And my chin, its gone, lost in the sea of flesh that I call my neck. Clothes don’t fit, hairdos feel foreign and makeup no longer makes a difference.  I am no longer beautiful.

I don’t detest my skin, but for some reason, I dont seem to want it anymore. There’s nothing exciting about the sag of my underarms and if I’m not enticed by it, how would others. I dread the mirror, there is an unattractive young woman staring back at me when I’m close. Her eyes are heavy, holding as much pain as it does promise. Love lived here. Once there was laughter and hope and all the joy that life could bring. Once…when she was still beautiful.

Who are you? Pain. How did you get here? Pain. How can we go back? Pain.

I dread the camera, even the filters have lost their potency. So there goes my social media – 7 months of void, bleak, emptiness. In a couple weeks Amaka will reach out and ask if I’m okay. Chucks will probably invite me to a party with his friends. I will politely decline because the clothes don’t fit anymore, the hairdo feels foreign and the make up no longer makes a difference. I am not beautiful.

Alright, guys, you know the drill, drop your comments, I’ll respond. Something to think about. This sentence is one of my favorite parts of the piece, I’d like to know what it means to you.

“Who are you? Pain. How did you get here? Pain. How can we go back? Pain.”