I look, and I’m still a size 10
Dissecting into 2x5’s
Barely a medium and yet ‘repulsion’ is a disservice
Tracing lumps like a child, toxins filling the innocence behind eye sockets, pupils, an iris
Tree trunks, mountains but nature is too kind
A feeling of nausea without relief
A desire to claw the flesh away
Divide by two atleast
Within the mask subtract again
Find fact beneath the fuckery.
I’m just a size ten.
As a young woman I continue to watch my friends despise they way the look, some find it hard to look in a mirror.
We are either too skinny or too fat, too tall or too short.
Anything other than the impossibility
of perfection is less than.