there to remind you that tanktops

are for layering and second helpings

are for skinny girls and not everyone has

room to grow.  

 

and That Thing your stepfather said two

years ago still echoes in your mind every

time hunger curls in the bottom of your

stomach like a snake coiling around its prey,

waiting for you to give in, for your friends

to put the food in front of you because they

noticed you haven’t been packing lunches

lately, for the cool water slipping

down your throat like an animal

into the empty night to stop

filling you.

 

when you were four years old you

would dance around the room naked

at bathtime, delight in the smoothness

of your skin, the air embracing every

part of you.  your grandparents thought

it was adorable. growing pains meant you

were getting stronger and

you ran your fingers absentmindedly

over your stomach that stuck out

like a toddler’s tongue.  

 

now you undress quickly without

glancing in the mirror, refuse to count

calories like your mother does because

if you start now you’ll never stop.  your

grandfather refers to your mother, who is

two pant sizes smaller than you, as

not a skinny woman and you take those words

onto the scale with you.