there is an obsession in this place
a sickness, weakness – achilles heel.
these women don't belong here, these
mannequins of bone & everything
we want to be – a mirage.
dressing rooms become our grave-yards
burying flesh & everything else our
mothers gave us in clothes
that don't quite fit right.
here: six year old me, & a summer
that's packed on more pounds than
sun; you do not understand
that you are still underweight. nourishment
is not yet connected with the self, diets
are only for your mother & you
don't want to grow up.
peter pan is so skinny.
you thought this once, &
it terrifies you.