Page 10 of Dirty Lyrics
I stood in line longer than I should have, but I’ve been craving peaches.
The woman at the stand said it was the last of the crop, and I bought more than I can possibly eat before they rot.
I carried the bag home like it was treasure.
Now, sitting by the cracked window, I bite into one—sweet, sticky juice running down my wrist—and press my other hand against the soft swell of my belly.
Fall is coming. It’s my favorite time of year.
The leaves will turn, the air will sharpen, and by this time next year, I won’t be alone.
I’ll have my son.
You can’t really tell I’m pregnant yet. To the rest of the world, I look the way I’ve always looked—soft, round.
Pleasantly plump, but I hate that phrase.
People think it’s kinder. It’s not.
But I’ve heard worse. Fat, when the whispers aren’t as generous.
But I know. I feel it in every flutter of exhaustion, every strange craving, every brush of my hand over the life growing inside me.
And for the first time, I don’t feel ashamed of my body. Because it’s not just mine anymore.
It’s working at growing my baby, so yeah, I have learned to love it these past few months. And I think I understand the whole body positive movement a bit better.
To all the naysayers thinking it’s about ignoring health risks—grow up. No one asked you. And you know what? Skinny people have health problems, too. That’s just biology.
But I am done apologizing for taking up more space. For being bigger. For being squishier.
If you don’t like it, don’t look. But this body is responsible for my child, so I love it.
And yes, I will do everything I can to keep myself balanced. To be healthy. To make sure I am ready for the responsibility and the absolute honor of being a mother to my child.
But how I look is no one’s business.
That I’m finally able to admit that, to own that? Well, it’s the best damn affirmation of my life.
I peel off my jeans and tug one of my oversized T-shirts over my head, the cotton soft and worn thin.
Nights are always the hardest.
It’s when the world slows down and there’s no one but me and the whisper of fears I can’t quite silence.
I brush my teeth, run a hand through my messy bun, and try to ignore the constant low hum of the bar below.
Laughter, music, the occasional shouted argument—it all bleeds through the floorboards.
I tell myself I chose this place because it’s noisy enough to drown out my thoughts.
But tonight, the sound that pulls me upright isn’t coming from the bar.
It’s footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
On the hallway stairs.
I freeze, every nerve in my body going rigid.
