Amy Judges my Body

Ya got nice tits, she says, her accent making
it sounds like an insult. Little bit of a belly,
she remarks as I drop my clothes and step
onto the scale. I eye the number. Today
is not a good day. She’s an inch shorter
and twenty pounds lighter though with
that beehive she looks taller. I weigh
myself each morning, stare at my naked
body in the mirror, try to decide if
my clavicles are more prominent today.
She’s right though, I’ve got a small
belly, the result of a week of unmonitored
eating. I vow to do better today. Does
it ever stop? she asks, her brash voice
suddenly quiet. Her body is forever
locked in that small frame, those bird
bones and buzzing hair. She is forever
27 and tragic. I’m 42 and more or less
cured. No, I whisper to my reflection,
it doesn’t.