I think that, from far away, I must look like a girl.
every flaw de-magnified, every bit of too-much-ness
made lesser by default.
if you silhouette me, my edges are soft.
cast my shadow, she is fragile and delicate.
she is small and palatable.
she is the absence of the existence of me.
my body has become something i crumple and drag
underneath me like a dead thing.
i stuff it into jackets,
zipped up like a body bag.
it has been years and years
since the ghost-flesh of my torso has seen the sun.
i couldn’t tell you how it feels to walk outside
and not check the ground
for somewhere to swallow me.
i couldn’t tell you how it feels
to touch this skin
and believe that it’s mine.
if this body were an evening gown
i’d take it straight to the tailor –
i’d ask him to take up the hem
so i can stop stumbling.
i’d tell him to switch out the scratchy tulle
for the softest fleece.
i’d beg him to loosen it up around the ribcage
so i could finally
take one, real, gasping breath of air.