"Putting My Thighs On Strike"

Beaten, abused, neglected, molested, rejected, starved, deformed, injured...malicious intent. My thighs have been through a lot. Harassed, assaulted, blamed, maimed, torn apart, wounded, set up to fail. They’ve weathered more than their fair share of disaster. Tortured, bound, detested, arrested development. I never let them grow the way they should have; I never just let them be as they wished to. Mistreated, defeated, shattered, battered, denied, defied, lied to. How many times have I told them they are worthless? How many times have I told them they were FUCK personified? If I spoke to a person the way I’ve spoken to & continue to speak to my thighs, I’d be incarcerated. If I threatened a human with the defamation that I direct daily to my thighs, I’d be in a psych ward. The abuse of my thighs is long winded; a trail of sweat & tears lay in their wake.

If I could cancel my thighs like a stolen credit card, I would do it without hesitation. I think that’s the problem, refusing to view my thighs as a part of my body & instead as a foreign body, as a parasite that’s locked onto my being & refused to depart. I refuse to accept that these tree trunks; these monstrous beings are part of me. At the same time I struggle with viewing my thighs as an extension of myself, as if to say the shape & state of my thighs depict how human I am, how worthy I am of love & life & all their pursuits.

If these thighs could talk, they’d serve me the greatest verbal bitch slap imaginable. If these thighs could talk, they’d kick my ass on a grand linguistic scale. If these thighs could talk, they’d rebel. If these thighs could talk they’d curse like a sailor, spinning hundreds of careful “Fuck You, You Stupid Bitch” webs. If these thighs could talk, they’d try their best to speak but end up bawling.

If my thighs ruled the world, they’d be the dictator to end all dictators. There would be assignation attempts, terrorist acts & mutinies. If my thighs ruled the world, the world would defect.

I stare at my thighs; standing in 500 different poses before the full-length mirror until I find the one where I detest them the least. I pinch & I push & I pull until my skin feels like rubber between my fingertips. Secretly, I hope to awake the next morning of every night that I go to sleep & find myself to be made of Play Dough. The opportunity to mold these bastards at my whim is all too appealing.

I tell myself that every woman feels the same way, that every woman wants to be her own personal plastic surgeon & slice away the layers of ugly. I tell myself it’s normal to want to murder a part of your body, to want to end the life of a part of yourself. I validate my self hatred by telling myself it’s normal to abhor your form. I make my madness out to be okay behavior by repeating: “Remove the wrong from your body”. Because I tell myself that that’s what every woman wants.

Last week in the multiple person dressing room I saw a woman, plus size & unapologetic. She gracefully pulled the dress over her skin, gently brushing her fingertips and then her palms across her thighs. She posed her body, but only twice as opposed to my 500. The first time she looked at herself, view over her shoulder staring back. The second time she turned around, smacked her ass with her palms & smiled, taking ownership of her thighs & loving every second of it. Her thighs, they were hers & no one else's.

My thighs are wrong, to me they seem angry & volatile. To me they seem to grow & try to take over as each day passes. I hate them for their insurgance. Though now, after viewing this aforementioned woman, I begin to wonder. Why wouldn't they be angry & bitter, when they've been so egregiously abused? Why wouldn't they fight back after years of supression? Why wouldn't they demand more attention after being silenced for so long?

My thighs, well they are MY thighs. My own & only mine. I can do to them whatever I wish, it's my call. But my thighs, they are just that. MINE. They can only belong to me, never can they be someone else's. Nobody can take them from me, not ever. My thighs, they are my unique battle. My thighs have changed me. I respect my thighs for their defiance. I admire my thighs for their rebellion. My thighs, just like my personality, are spitfirey. My thighs are my thighs. For once, for today & possibly forever, I'm allowing my thighs to go on strike.