baking cupcakes

i still **** my tummy in,

imagine it smooth.

my mom was surprised when i confessed

i was shirtless,

with nothing but my sports bra.

(at least I’m tan)

you say you like my tummy,

and some days I do too.

i still slap my thighs,

imagine scrawny flesh,

stretch marks are lost among

photoshop wonderland.

i’m an hourglass figure, you say,

but I find it silly we compare body types

to glasses, and fruit,

for we are a combination of things,

we are stars, and seas, and candy,

and railroad tracks that sometimes go around in circles until

we *****

i still see my limbs as different people,

and i wish i could detach them like the toxins in my lungs.

people like my ***

so maybe that’s why I move it so much when I’m drunk.

people say I’m Arabic,

people say I’m Mexican,

people say I’m Muslim,

but really I’m all of those combined into a mixing bowl,

and one day maybe, I’ll make cupcakes

and swallow them whole.

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