When I was younger
I was stick thin.
My aunt pulled my mom aside and cautiously whispered
Do you think she's been eating enough?
My third grade teacher
gave me the nickname
Skinny Minnie,
my gym teacher told me to
go eat a cheeseburger.

Now I look in the mirror
and cannot find my younger self.
My aunt did not blink an eye
when I said
I'm not hungry.
My teacher does not question
when I bring only a water bottle to lunch,
someone, please,
tell me to go eat a cheeseburger,
because I have only eaten
two-hundred calories today
but no one is calling me skinny.

We like to take care of skinny people
as if they were just passing through.

Like if we don't hold them tight, they'll disappear.

We put sweaters on them
bundle them up with words of concern.
We take them in.
We tuck them in.
It becomes an addiction
that runs both ways.

I fell in love with worried eyes
and pursed lips, the feeling
of ribs knocking into the yielding flesh
of a whole universe of mothers.

They do not leave.
They stay and take care of you
fortify you, nourish you,
bring the colour back.

Skinny, I can't let you go
because I don't know how
to just ask
for love.

Not from them,
and not from me.
I don't wanna grow up
I don't wanna die
keep me at age five
before the flood came
bring her back
take nothing away
ever, ever again.

Not strong enough to feed myself the inherent right for affection
and not brave enough to be strong.


And so that's why I chose you, Skinny.
My collar bones are my contingency plan.
If they disappear too, God help me-
because I got nothing.