Edges not curves

I grew up in a family of curvy women. And while my mom & grandma were never not on a diet of some sort, I learned that curves were to be celebrated. 

In high school & beyond I dated men that celebrated curves, much like society still does. ‘Dat ass tho’... something I hear frequently from the men around me. A celebration of curves. ‘Damn, she has a nice rack’... another celebration of curves. ‘Thick thighs save lives’...another celebration of curves. 

I no longer have curves. I have edges where my bones stick out. If you rub your fingers along my back you can count my ribs & each vertebra. Edges not curves.

I look angry all the time, because my edges can be seen in my face. Faces need curves to look happy to the general public. Edges not curves. 

My once voluptuous breasts fit nicely in a tank with a shelf bra. There may be an A cup of tissue left. When his hands grasp them his fingers can feel the edges behind my breasts. When I lay flat, my ribs and sternum stick up higher than my breasts as they become virtually nonexistent. Edges not curves. 

My once thick thighs no longer touch. Even when I flex, they do not touch. I will save no ones life with my thighs. Edges not curves. 

My ass is deflated. In its place are edges that shouldn’t be seen. My sacrum, my hip bones, my pelvis—edges that can be seen when I stand in front of the mirror after showering. Edges not curves. 

My husband doesn’t know this body, as he’s afraid he might break me when he grabs hold. He prefers curves and not edges. 

I do not know this body in which I reside. I do not like my edges. I miss my curves. 

Edges not curves.