My clothing fits me with anger. 
It resents me. 
My face is swollen, and my stomach is melting. 
My bum has gotten so huge that I can't squeeze it into things. 
I look in the mirror, and it is as if I put a basketball in my pants. 
I am happy for the muscles in my thighs. 
And for the muscles and tone in my bum. 
But the size, the size, still kills my thighs. 

I want to return to Ny as the feather queen. 
So light and floating like I ought to be. 
I should fear the way bad food weighs me down. 
And thrive off of clean substances. 

My clothing loathes me. 
It tells me so. 
Every morning. 
That I squeeze my melt into the fabric. 


Haven't seen her since Christmas.
One of the first things she tells to me is that I've gotten chubz again. 
And the reality has set in 
It is true. 
It is true. 
I have lost my shape. 

I have lost my power. 
I am no longer a congueress. 
I no longer remember the feeling of my collar bones. 
My hip bones. 

Not as a starving child. 
But a controlled one. 

Give yourself control, Masha. 

Mama tells you when you're thin. 
Mama tells you when you've lost within. 

She tells me never to drink beer. 
And it is worthless. 
She is true. 
Why would I drink bread. 

I want the power to stomp again.
I can not return to Brooklyn as the slop that I find myself now. 


Okay, I've reached my limit. 

To have control over everything. 
But not my body, what am I. 

I know what to eat. 
I know what not to eat. 



I have written a bit elsewhere. 
I will update all soon. 

My eating habits are strange. 
I engulf all. 

And one day, I chose to eat the healthy.
The next, I don't think to eat. 
Maybe I will have a dinner tonight.