An Open Letter
There are places
under clothes
where I have
expanded, and I feel as if
I am suffocating
inside blankets of poly-cotton
and 2% spandex,
but I have never
not bulged,
not once in my life;
I don't know why you're suddenly
surprised by it.
You have scratched raw the skin
of our thighs, made bloody
holes in the surface
with my own
fingernails,
and I am tired of being
my enemy.
I dread the mirror more than you do.
I take you out,
I walk you up mountains
and endure the torture of
high-heeled shoes,
I dance for you when you
want me to,
it is my arms with which you
embrace
the ones you care for,
my lips that facilitated your
first real kiss but it was you
who fell in love.
It was me he laid his hands on
every evening.
It was I who grew short of
breath with his touch.
Maybe that is why
you cannot love me.