"Am I fat?"
My little sister asks,
poking a delicate finger at her tiny stomach.

My heart sinks.

I stare at her thin limbs
well muscled from gymnastics
and playground antics.
"No. Don’t ever let me hear the "F" word come out of your mouth again,"I say.

But I know she will ask again.
She will ask herself when she stares in the mirror,
and will pass judgment on her thighs, her hips, her stomach.

Just as I
and nearly every other woman ever born,
asks the glass, permission to approach the bench
and the judge gives a final verdict— not thin/pretty/beautiful/skinny/fair/tan/ enough.

How ****** up it is—that we think worth is visible.