Kristina Warlen

Kristina Warlen is a literary and speculative writer whose work explores memory, impermanence, identity, and the quiet emotional fractures that shape us. She writes at the intersection of realism and the uncanny, often lingering in the spaces between grief and connection, silence and revelation. Her writing has appeared on the TWLOHA blog, in 50-Word Stories, and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review.

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

The Body Stayed

CW: body image, disordered eating (non-graphic), sexual content, internalized shame, grief

I used to be someone else.

Or maybe I was just someone smaller. Someone easier to carry, easier to congratulate, easier to ignore. A body that passed—thin enough to be praised, quiet enough not to be questioned. I was the kind of woman people missed out loud—God, remember when you used to be so tiny? Like it was a compliment. Like I died.

But I didn’t die.

I just stayed. In a body that changed. That grew, slowed, stiffened. That learned to breathe louder, ache earlier, take up more space than the world wanted it to. I stayed through it all: illness, grief, childbirth, stillness, silence. Now I live in skin that feels like loose evidence. That sweats too soon, wheezes mid-laugh, hurts in ways I can’t name or treat. And I’m the one who has to figure out what the hell to do with it.

I don’t date. Not really. Dating apps feel like open auditions for a role I was never cast in. Every swipe is a micro-rejection—asking someone to see me and want me is apparently too much choreography. I’ve seen the look before: hesitation, calculation, pity dressed up like gentleness. I would rather be alone than be someone’s reluctant exception.

And sex? Sex is complicated now. Not impossible—just more logistical than mythical. My breasts are so heavy they sometimes suffocate me mid-thrust. Nothing kills the mood like needing a break for air. And yet—I miss it. I miss being touched with urgency. Like my skin was a secret someone was desperate to memorize. Now I get careful. Now I get considerate. Now I get paused.

But the worst part isn’t the lack of sex. It’s the absence of me. I miss the girl who liked mirrors. Or at least didn’t flinch. I’m trying to find her again—or maybe someone braver. I walk in the woods now. I swim even when the suit sticks in all the wrong places. I stretch. I hurt. I stay. And sometimes, I edge into rooms where bodies like mine are altars—not burdens. Spaces with ropes and cuffs and reverence, where softness is craved, not corrected. Where people say more instead of brave.

These places are terrifying. And kind. And sometimes, there, I catch a glimpse of myself—not smaller, not prettier, not transformed. Just present. Just allowed.

People don’t talk about what it really means to live in a bigger body. Not the slogans. Not the “all bodies are beautiful” propaganda. The real stuff: the knee pain before coffee. The shirt that clings to the top of your stomach and ruins your whole mood. The moment you wonder if you’re being stared at, or worse—ignored. Wondering if the person saying “you look great” is just nostalgic for your disappearance.

I remember being smaller. I wasn’t happier. Just emptier.

This body has stayed. Through migraines, heartbreak, disinterest, joy, orgasms, and screaming into towels. Through a child’s fever dreams and a doctor’s passive dismissal. Through the endless noise of a world asking me to shrink, shrink, shrink. It stayed. I stayed.

And no, I’m not “back to myself.”

I’m building a new one. One laugh. One breath. One tantrum. One fuck. One refusal to vanish. One glorious, inconvenient stretch at a time.

This is the body that stayed.

And I’m learning—aching, cursing, healing—to stay with it.