the way he rolled his cigarettes was godly
and i know baby that you miss how he tastes of smoke and loneliness
and i know that you miss breathing in his aroma of stale coffee and sweat

you told me about how his hands caressed you like you were a whisper
and how he bit into your skin like you were something to be devoured

paranoia of the 3rd degree
in 8th grade
when the boy i liked IM'd my friend
and said the shirt i wore to church made me look fat.

shaking nervousness in a 12 year old body
overweight
moving a fork from my plate to my mouth --
a true horror
listening to girls read calories
off a box of vanilla wafers

pinching my stomach fat
wanting to tear it off
an 8 year old who asked her older sister
to help her get thinner

decades i've wasted looking so close at every piece of me
i know how i look from every angle without a mirror
i've memorized every defect.
critical sections studied under a microscope:
i am not anything but scientific in my process.

i blow myself up to disproportionate sizes
and then wonder why sometimes i lay in bed and feel

huge.

and other times

so small.

after a while you'll begin to realize that the constant scrutiny and study of your temple is fruitless
that the hungry monster behind your ribcage
that eats dark lipstick and winged eyeliner and name brand clothes and highlighting powder and contouring brushes
that you sacrifice increments of time to every morning,
night
every prolonged glance in a mirror...
fuels itself off the notion that the images we see on a screen are the standard for cultural truth.

i turned 21 and decided to throw away the microscope.
to change what images i saw on my screens
to eliminate the photoshopped waists and fill them with pictures of normal, happy bodies
and i began to see the body that i exercised,
fed vegetables,
watered,
washed,
nurtured,
as not fat or ugly or unwanted
but as a perfect home for myself
and maybe someone else
if i wanted.

because the cultural truth lies in what you see in other humans
not dancing shadows on a screen in a cave
it lies in the gentle rolls of your stomach
and the crinkles around your lips and eyes
and the pimples on your forehead.
there is nothing garish
about reality.

let it be because she reminded you of me.
that her blonde hair was cut in a chopped short mess,
just like mine.
and her laugh was a silent, gasping for air, kind of laugh.

that her eyes were green but you imagined they were blue,
that her lips almost tasted like my coconut chapstick,
that if you squinted your eyes hard enough,
she had my freckles.

let it be because she was wearing my favorite perfume,
because she was wearing my favorite color,
or because she was wearing black nail polish
that she had a bad habit of scratching off.

let it be because it was just a kiss,
because it didn't mean anything.
let it be because you were missing me,
and she was the closest thing.
let it be a stupid, heat of the moment, mistake.

let it be because you were drowning in loneliness,
and she was a boat.
or let it be because you couldn't feel me anymore,
and she was just at arms reach.
let it be something you will never do again...

just don't let it be because you don't love me anymore.