The first one develops in the space between the bottom of my ass and the top of my thigh. Rumbles of cellulite peel and separate by a lid and a water line. The iris is a startling shade of green with flecks that flash gold in the evening sun that glides past the metro when I ride after work. I am lucky to sit down during rush hour, but the man next to me keeps scoffing when my thighs encroach into his seat, despite my attempts to make myself as small as possible. I eventually decide to stand, allowing him to spread out.
The second one forms on my upper arm when I’m out to lunch one day. I feel the lashes flutter against my skin, exposed in the tank top I had worked up the courage to wear. When I examine it in the Starbucks bathroom, hazel with heavy bags, I notice it is surrounded by stretch marks I didn’t know I had. I switch back to longer sleeves; who cares that it’s July?
The third and fourth seem to appear out of nowhere. My friend begs me to wear a particular dress to her birthday party, insistent we all wear the same color for Instagram photos. The cut makes it impossible to wear a bra and my desire to please outweighs the awareness of my lopsided breasts. It’s an hour and half a beer into the evening when I have to excuse myself to the host’s bathroom and find that two more have taken the place of my nipples. They blink back at me, blue and cold. For a brief moment, I wonder how they would look with mascara. I go home early after seeing a matching pair on my friend’s sister’s face.
The fifth was more embarrassing than the others. It pops out at work and I am so certain I can hear whispers of disgust around me. I am just chatting with the new floor supervisor. He greets me first, makes some jokes about some data entry, and I’m surprised he’s actually funny. I laugh – loud and harder than I mean to. Before I can stop it, I feel it burst from my neck and droop from the weight of my chin. I clamp my hand over it and he doesn’t seem to see. I keep my hand there the rest of the day, pushing back the fat and ignoring the moist feeling in my palm. I don’t know if it’s tears or just general fluid.
The sixth I don’t notice until I get out of the shower. I catch sight of it in the mirror, blurred by condensation. Once I wipe at the glass, I see a gray eye staring back at me. It sits in the exact spot I had wanted for a tattoo when I was eighteen until my mother told me only sluts get tattoos on their lower backs and I wasn’t skinny enough to be a slut. It blinks and I wish I had gotten those flowers. Maybe it would have blended in with a design. Instead, it is folded in, weighed down by love handles.
The seventh one hurts. It hurts in a way I don’t expect. I’ve been talking to a guy for almost three months now. We’ve been on several dates, and he’s always been so sweet. So courteous. He always insists on eating out together, going to movies. He doesn’t hide me away like I’ve been doing with myself. He’s touchy. I tell myself I’m just not used to this sort of attention. That anyone like me would adore this. We’re at a restaurant, a really nice one, and I assure him I have no problem paying for my meal but he insists he’ll cover everything. He wants me to order cocktails, appetizers, sides, an entrée that costs a day’s paycheck. He barely touches any of it, watching me the whole time and I feel sick and then guilty because how can you feel sick off of food this expensive? He keeps putting his hand on my thigh, slipping it under my dress. I brush him off, even go as far as to kick him under the table when I feel his fingers pinch at my hip. He just smiles back at me like I’m the funniest thing he’s ever seen. Enough is enough when he asks to see a dessert menu for us, even though I say I’m full. He doesn’t seem to hear me and begins to list out the decadent options like they’re pornographic. Red velvet butter cake, crème brûlèe with seasonal berries, espresso cannolis, I can almost feel the rich flavors pouring down my throat and it takes everything in me not to vomit all over the table. I want to leave, but as soon as I say it, I know what’s to follow. A grin that’s all teeth and a not-so-subtle suggestion to “go back to his”. But I’m still not ready and each time I tell him this, I know his patience wears thinner. It snaps this time, resulting in him tossing the menu onto the table with a scoff and loud curse that turns heads. I’m whispering, asking him to please not be upset, to let us talk about this outside. He refuses to follow my lead and instead gets louder, questioning why I have to be like this after all he’s done, why I can’t just do one fucking thing for him. My make-up is losing the battle against my tears, and I get up to leave, hoping simultaneously that he will stay away, letting me feel like I had the last word, and follow me to apologize, letting me continue the fantasy of being desired. Instead, “fat bitch” hits my ass on the way out the restaurant door and into the cool night air. The door hasn’t even fully shut behind me when I feel the cut of my newest addition slice across my stomach, splitting my navel in half. It is bigger than the others with long enough lashes for me to watch the motion of its blinking flutter the fabric of my dress; the wetness of my newest organ colors my blue dress from cobalt to royal. I can’t see it, but I’m certain of its appearance. Brown, angry, and predatory. Just like his.
Delaney Burk grew up in Alexandria, VA, and earned her BA in English with a Creative Writing focus at Virginia Commonwealth University. Some publications she has previously featured in include From Whispers to Roars, Gravitas Magazine, Cleaning Up Glitter Literary Journal, Coffin Bell Journal, Compressed, Defunkt Magazine, Washington Writers Publishing House, and Lunch Ticket. She is currently interning for Feels Blind Literary Magazine, attending George Mason University's MFA program, and researching camp in horror films. You can find her on Twitter @OriginalDelaney, rambling about what her most recent tarot reading could mean and how hot Alfred Molina is.