some women wear dresses like they’re made for them
like they grew a second skin overnight
floating in and out of everyone’s vision
strings attached to the balls of their feet, just a little flick of the wrist and up
onto the toes they go.
me, i look at myself in the dim mirrored bart window
and see flesh leaking out of the arm holes, not quite cinched in by an ill-fitting bra
digging into my sternum.
i see a waistline hidden, lying.
i see a color that looked better in my bedroom two hours ago
maybe through sleep-bleary eyes
maybe through a good dose of hope.
i don’t bounce, or flit.
i try not to plod or stomp, and i have to remind myself that i have heels on
that generations of women before me learned to walk in them
shop in them
please everyone in them.
the least i can do, i think, is try not to walk like godzilla
or a girl playing dress-up in her mother’s pointed 70s nightmares.
i tell myself there are certain colors i can’t wear, but really
what it means is there are colors that don’t fully cover the depressed space in my heart
where the love for what i look like (who i am)
i don’t mean to be melodramatic, but it’s easy to get caught up in the lace that doesn’t sit right, or the particular pink that makes me feel 5, chocolate-smeared or grass-stained and forever tugging the skirt down like i’m told.