Sweat glues my thighs tight

like a proper lady. 

It is early and my body is drenched in sepia.

But somewhere I am iridescent –

if I only look at things that fly,

and nothing on the stairs. 

If I trust my gravity instead of wishing

I had none.

If I never notice my glass legs,

maybe I will not crack.

Still, there is no air for my nose to feed on,

no breath where my chin can perch,

lay eggs of salty moisture in my pores. 

This skirt will coax me

to pinch myself. 

This feminine tank top, 

the way it squishes me like a slut of a bug

will rip my eyes into scabs. 

I need to leave the house in ten minutes.

If I remove my clothing

(instead of my skin)

I can change in time.

My timer has seen my rusting breasts

and I pretend I’m not ashamed –

The ticking slaps me with cold heat,

rushing me 

as I condense into landfill. 

My chest is flat now.

Time to sacrifice my ribs to the Gods. 

I’ll throw my bones dipped in blood

at whoever sculpted this body,

whoever lumped on extra flesh 

and made me someone I have to compress. 

I’ll wrap my body in a pink bow

and send it back to the factory.