To Sara, Who Hates Her Body


Your shoulders are tired,
holding layers of cotton shirts
to hide your ribs that jut
out of your stomach.
The hunger snarls, a stray cat
digging for scraps,
warning your hands to allow your mouth
to heed the call, but with the feeling of
broken potato chips
on your teeth
comes the deafening sound of the words
that broke through your chest, found the parts
of you that loved the ocean, that saw God
in the faces of children and wild flowers.
You see her, the thin waste,
his arms fitting tightly around it.
So you turn the faucet on,
the water rushing,
crowding the sounds
of a girl arguing with her bones.

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