Monday, November 4, 2013

This Shell

He says
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 owned
by anyone but myself.




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