My dresses don’t fit me anymore.
When you’re skinny, people think
You’re frail and weak.
They interrupt you.
My dresses don’t fit me any—
I tightly smile when people say,
You lucky girl!
And pat my shoulder blades.
My dresses don’t fit m—
You should be grateful, they say,
As they number their calories
And force themselves to shrink.
My dresses don’t—
Stop complaining, don’t you know
You have a gift? Eat some more,
I shrink and stoop and slowly subside
Like a still-small, silent wave.
There is a limit to this flesh
Of which I’m too aware.
You are what you eat,
And you are not enough.
You are not enough.