"Beach Bodies" by David Fasanya and Gabriel Barralaga

I don’t know
about you, but

I’m trying to get
this beach body

That P90X,

Brad Pitt,

Bradley Cooper,

Tyrese,

Trey Songz,

Matthew
McConaughey

Beach body!

I’m trying to
sweat in front of everybody.

Word.

And get that
shorty with them Angelina Jolie lips

To lick my torso,

Get me looking
like a wet chocolate.

Look at my
biceps.

They’re kind of
puny.

They’re kind of
chunky.

But I’ve been
working on them.

We can be models.

I could take off
my shirt mad sexy.

I could stare at
a camera intensely

For 37 seconds
straight and not blink.

I could bathe in
baby oil.

I could run on
the beach in slow motion

I could cat walk
down a runway in zebra panties.

I can’t do that.

Having a slow
metabolism ruins everything.

All my friends
will be in tank tops,

And I’ll be in a
hoodie.

I’m good at
zipping up my insecurities,

Thinking I could
sweat them out.

I’m trying to get
this beach body!

I’m too skinny.

I guzzle junk
food like my mouth’s a garbage chute,

But my intestines
are allergic to trans fat.

I want to be a
flexing horse leg,

Galloping beach
sand into a red carpet,

Customised for me

To strut the
shore side

Like a centaur on
a conveyor belt.

I’m trying to get
this beach body,

But there is
salvation in snack closets,

On licked plates
of seconds,

At the bottom of
a pint of ice cream.

I use Haagen Dazs
as a morphine cylinder

Because she said
my arms weren’t strong enough to carry her.

I think I’m weak.

I think I’m fat.

I think I’m ugly.

The beach is no
place for a whale like me,

For a mini van
with its tank on E.

I want to be
Baywatch bareable,

Broken,
bottle-cut, have you seen my muscles

And my scars?

You smell that?

That’s macho
moisture.

My hour-long work
out routine consists of

5 minutes of
push-ups on my bedroom floor,

a denial mirror
repelling my lanky limbs;

5 minutes of
keeping my chin high over the bar of self-doubt;

10 minutes
placing 100 pounds of failure on my chest

so it becomes the
elephant in the room;

10 minutes
jogging with ghosts

chuckling at my
chunky thighs,

and I’ll smile,

knowing I’ll soon
be able to fit in my old butt pants;

30 minutes
thinking sweat is a masculinity cloak.

And I’m weary
from trying to work out my irrational fears,

Drown them in a
puddle of perspiration,

Shove the
imperfections I should be proud of under water:

My gap-tooth
smile,

My frizzy hair,

My funny shaped
head,

The extra weight
that kept me grounded,

The missing
pounds that make me

a kite flailing
free through the wind, 

not bound by
muscle.

So, yes,

I’m trying to get
this beach body,

That Channing
Tatum,

David Beckham,

LL Cool J

Beach body!

But we’re tired

And exhausted

From trying to be
something we’re not.