Identity is a lot like clothing.
It is rooted in the idea that you must-
absolutely must-
wear it in order to offer anything
to society.

But sometimes, your body changes.
It is a natural process,
a revolution of cells and mathematics
and biology merging,
stretching,
or thinning into white lines.
It is something that every human
inevitably experiences,
and yet we are taught to punish ourselves
for our bodies
if they do not fit the clothing
or the style
that is "in."

I used to be thin and nondescript.
I conformed easily;
my skinny jeans were snug and comforting
and entirely right.
But as I grew older,
they began to struggle to climb my hips,
to nestle my waist and claim ownership
of the land they once recognized.
They became a distraction.
They became a discomfort.

So I traded them for something looser.
Something new.  Similar, yes, but different.
My friends did not understand.
"Why couldn't you just go a size up?
The old style was just fine.
A bigger size would suit you better,
so why not at least try?"

Why, indeed?  I still wonder.

Perhaps it was because so many people
tried to buy me new clothes.
I didn't understand or particularly like
the ripped, frayed blue jeans,
and I definitely did not favor
the vulnerability of short skirts
or tight dresses.

Why should you dictate
what I decide to wear,
as if you have any right to my body?

Why do you insist on such precise fits?

Why can't I dance through my days
in something loose, something flowing,
something I myself don't understand?

Instead, I still tried to wear my old pants.
And when again they no longer fit,
stretched and miserable and wrong,
I lay down in the laundry basket
and waited to be discovered
and tossed out
with the ***** clothes.