I’ve forgotten what it’s like
to be real. Between
meals, I pinch up belly fat, chubby
bunny marshmallow bites
sandwiched by my suspicious
fingertips. I then attempt to conjure
metabolism like a monsoon of China
Slim Tea and sugar-free
Haribo gummy bears through
my blood. So it goes
for those of us past the acceptable age
for playing Bloody Mary
and comparing thigh gaps
at sleepovers. As I get older, I realize
it takes velocity to exist
in organic form, especially
mine. One minute, my love
language is sophisticated curve, peach
slice dripping
sweet with juice. The next, it’s an aspirin tablet
dropped into a liter-sized Pepsi
bottle with the cap screwed
shut, transparent jugular
bulging with carbonated excess seeking
evaporative exodus in the snack aisle
of your local Walgreens. It’s on the days
I feel the emptiest
that I want to explode
the most, feel like I am running
through a Reese’s peanut buttercup field
encased by green Jell-O
salad, that I want someone to unbuckle
my ankle straps and call me
“kitten” despite the fact
I haven’t been teacup-sized since I was fourteen, despite
my repressed
scheming to eventually fit my fat
ass back into Paris Hilton’s handbag. But if
I can’t have hip
dips, whipped cream
on my titties, or armpit jiggle ready to embrace the lips
of a saxophone
player, do I even want
this life? I must be eating more to have such energy
to philosophize,
to embrace living like a back alley
duct tape Brazilian: throbbing
and shameless, fleshy
and blushed down to the bone
in places no one else can see. It’s painful, but
at least I can feel
more than nerve damage
in my hands, the urge to hold my coffee
cup in a compactor-tight
grip to register even a Celsius
of warmth. Call it my own method
for moderation, aftermath
of disorder. Call it crème
brûléeing the wound after it curdles. As long
as you sing, paradox
of my digestive tract. For I know one day
I will cease to be cute. For all I know, today
is that day
pouring into my palms
over my belt line, spilled pitcher
of milkshake, too much love
in my handles. The world can tell me
I am too old
to be silly or fat. It won’t stop me
from molting, coming back
in a different skin. For I think
I am rather too young to be dead.