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This body is mine 
I’ll flip my open sign 
And I’ll be a bitch as I please. 

By Cecily Thomas

Yeah, I’m a bitch.
But I’m not your
“Hmph, bitch”
I’m that fat bitch.
that bitch.
I’m the one you smell in a dream
A nightmare
I’m a fucking bitch for letting you starve?
Bitch,
In a silky robe of my confidence
And my walk of shame
My bakery body has more rolls
Than dreary lane
Was the muffin man a baker,
Or was he just fat shamed?
A dreary, feary lane indeed.
And my bakery body
Is steaming hot,
And you know it.
But do I know it?
I can feel your arms squeeze
And I’m overfilled; spilling
And my rolls fill my body
And the bakery keeps pushing
And yeah, I’m a bitch
I’m that bitch
Who will stuff a cake
And eat a tray of sadness
And wake up the next day
In a feat of gender madness
Gender sadness
Fluid and raw
Gender ripping my brain
Gender smashing my windows
Gender pushing more rolls
And burning the bakery down
Like my burnt skin
My rolls, my chocolate steaming buns
Too burnt like my charred skin
In a fire of dysphoria and I
And I…
My lumps seep further
Than the breadth of my stomach.
They seep up to my chest
And my waist nonetheless
And the rolls never stop–
Even after a sports bra
So I wear a baggy sweater
In hopes of a saggy curtain
I’m like the wizard of oz;
What you see is an illusion
And YES, I’m THAT bitch
My face is always caked
Yet wearing no makeup at all
Because these rolls never keep my
gender out of the picture
And I’ve found I’m a different mixture
Of hate and sad
Yet can I not breathe
Yet I eat my feelings
Yet the cake and the brownies rip me in two
Into pain
Yet the sweets and candy fill my heart with
I’m sad, so I stuff my fucking face
And the bakery keeps pushing because
My rolls are steaming
Butter crackling on a pan, so flaky are my rolls
And these buns are damn hot
Fresh, whole, tasty..
These stretch marks
I have to knead my dough over and over
And the dough is stretchy
And my stretch marks expand the more I bake
And I need my dough
And I can’t help myself.
My mania drives me to an oven and a stove
And my aromatherapy is the smell of fresh, crisp bakes and food
The crash swallows it whole.
The burps are a sign of happiness, sadness,
Mania drove me to the kitchen
But my depression drive the kitchen into me
And my chest only grows and my gender
Keeps burning me alive
But i can’t help it.
I’m that fat bitch.


But I remember
That we all hit a bakery just for a taste
The smell of sweetness fills the noses
Of curiosity, need, and hunger
Yet you only need me when I have something to give.
These rolls are mine, they’re fucking mine
And I can sell these buns, or I can leave them mine
I can sell them to one
I can sell them to none
These are my thick ass cakes
And I’ll eat them as I please.
I’ll cake, roll, and stuff my fat face
And You can call me a bitch
A selfish, selfish bitch
“Why can’t you share the sweets?”
Because, bitch
This body is mine
I’ll flip my open sign
And I’ll be a bitch as I please.


Cecily loves writing; the expression as a whole and the interlocking ways that it fuels their interactions with society. They identify as a queer, non-binary, mixed-racial academic activist, who functions daily with Bipolar Disorder, Anxiety, and PTSD. While they are 22; their ambitions for life steer close as they would like to work with queer and youth homeless populations, among other activist work. Cecily began writing when they were little, and used it as an outlet for expression and ambition, continuing that work through social justice work today. They work managing a website and writing for others, local organizing, and conference engagement alongside their academic endeavors. Currently they are working to give platforms and voice their truth, while uplifting and inspiring others in the fight for justice. You can find them on Instagram @ctehcoimlays