These robes, I fear, are relics that reserve

little sentiment for me.

 

I still have visions of the tape measure that

dressed my body before them,

 

snaking itself around my chest, my waist,

and my thighs,

 

slowly suffocating me until I collapsed under

the pressure I applied to myself.

       

          I never felt welcome in these garments.

 

While listening to my friends exchange promises

of love, I stood there, stabbing my

 

stomach with a bouquet, trying to murder my

insecurities. I worry they can never die.

 

Now I stand in my closet, glancing over

the gowns of autumnal colors,

 

knowing quite well that if I slipped into one,

I’d be swimming in satin,

 

grieving the figure I sacrificed just to remain

unsatisfied with the martyr in the mirror.