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.