I would not wake up to a war with flesh,
twisting and turning to pinch in a soft waist to lithe sinew.
Slim limbs and sharp clavicles—
my edges would cut deep.
Perfection; walking anywhere as a body
of art, letting everyone’s eyes peer through
me to sunlight, a curved heaven.

The women of my family have said that success
depends on matchstick legs and sleek hips that
insure a delicate beauty, seemingly effortless.
But if my smooth form fractures,
the weight swelling into weaknesses,
I would rather lay scattered as another’s
mess, so throw me down to the swift end.