My body is doing that thing again 

Written by Erin Roux

 

 

I lean

into the mirror

and squeeze my pores

until my face is as red

as a maraschino cherry.

 

There.

 

I look at my eyebrows

and wrinkle my forehead

and pluck hairs

one

at

a

time

between my fingernails.

 

There.

 

I step back

and look

at what I’ve created

and I squint

and I look like a Rembrandt painting.

 

I take off

my sweaty t-shirt

and look

at my stomach.

It slowly extends

and folds back into itself

and it reminds me of an animal

on the side of the road-

but with much less to eat.

 

My body

is doing that thing

where you look at a word

too much

and it starts to not look

like a word,

 

but a meaningless jumble

of shapes

and

curves

and

I close

my eyes.    

 

I peel off my socks

and

my sweatpants

and

I marvel at the length

of my thighs

and

I wonder if I can make

them smaller,

making the space

between them

bigger,

so it can hold more air,

hold the future,

hold

my

hand.

 

My breasts

are far too large

for my body,

creating

my torso

into an inverted triangle.

I am embarrassed

to look at myself.

 

I pick

at the skin

on my chest.

 

There.

 

I pick

at the bumps

on my legs.

 

There.

 

I peel

at the nails

on my fingers.

 

There.

 

I pull

on my face, and

wonder what it would look

like if I didn’t have any skin.


There.

 

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