This body of mine pulls back, the body that towers six feet, sees from a higher vantage point, with enormous arms to reach that which others cannot, arms to connect me to the iron that I love so much. Long, strong legs with thighs that rub, but if they were smaller legs I would not pull the weight, weight that slowly climbs until it reaches these gorgeously large and strong thighs, held by the arms that I use to hug and shove. And my stomach, and sides, and back- all of these things, the perfect size, holding those arms and legs together, connecting and shoring up, big because they have to be bulwarks against the iron that threatens to pull me down.
Twenty nine years of hating this body and believing all of the liars that kept telling me to reject my body, wanting to pull me down just like the iron tries to pull me down. But now this big, tall, strong body of mine says no, and PULLS BACK. This body doesn't leave weight on the floor. This body doesn't shy away from building more muscle, packing it on like slabs of beef, engorging my limbs till they burst through shirts, split seams in dresses, make the earth tremble when I walk. I build muscle to pull back; bigger every day, until one day I will pull the whole world.