do not become a little old round woman.
I look down at this shell
and find no way to stop the process
written in my DNA.
I did not grow taller
after the sixth grade
when the twin shames
sprouted on my chest.
I did not survive
55 winters without learning
the name of each line, each scar,
each fold mapped upon this skin.
I did not learn
to swallow past the anorexic
gag shards, tiny bits by the clock,
without donating my size fours.
I was not born
to be reduced,
an arm trophy without sun
or food or a body ownedby anyone but myself.