Cold tile, legs Indian style, Two hands holding one head as I reflect on all the ways I wish I could change myself.
Thick thighs that have always touched; Stretch marks that extend longer than my ambition; An Italian *** that threatens to take over my five foot of frame.
And then one night she calls me and says "Sis, I wish I could be a model like you…" And stomach twists and falls in my gut, as I struggle to find the words to tell her she's perfect just as she is.
Stumbling speech matched with an unfiltered tongue. A laugh that will break eardrums and hard hearts. She says "Sis, maybe one day you can teach me to read so I can go to college," while she tightens the Velcro that holds her 21 year old feet still, because she never quite understood where the bunny went.
See she’s what the doctors calls mentally *******; genetically martyred to die in a society that tells her she's imperfect.
And now here she is, my sister, my reflection on cold tile with legs Indian style; Her two hands holding one head, Reflecting on all the ways she wishes could change herself to be pretty normal like me...