I was born tall and thin and pink like a ****** steak. I cried until I could run and then ran like a lunatic, screaming peals of laughter and destroying without guilt as kids do-
and still I was skinny.
I was skinny in elementary school. The other kids took to football and dirt bikes. I was still pink like an underripe tomato.
I grew up tall and thin in a world for shorter and fuller people. With crooked teeth and glasses.
I was skinny in middle school. When the other kids started to build muscle you could've played my ribs like a xylophone. You still could.
I grew up tall and thin and frustrated like a ****. I never fit on public busses or in the little plastic desks at school. My feet stuck off the end of my bed. They still do. I slouched and hiked my shoulders up so as not to obstruct others' line of sight.
I still do.
I was skinny when I first fell in love. What she saw in me, I can't say. I was tall and thin and crooked but I wanted so badly, just for once, to be the right shape for her. She was rather short and had caramel skin. We made an odd couple.
I grew up tall and thin, a square peg in a world of round holes. I'm skinny today- a pinkish wisp with a skinny soul tucked away behind dark sunglasses.
I was born skinny. And I'll probably die skinny too, and make a tall, thin corpse for a much shorter, wider casket.