I look like a twig
as if I should be ashamed
to be compared to a strong tree.
You hold up my pale white arm,
letting it hang,
laughing that I am all skin and bones,
but aren’t you, too?
You think I should come with a caution label
that explains how to properly hold something
and fragile as glass.
You put your strong arm around my waist,
running your fingertips over my protruding hip bones,
confessing that it feels like something that doesn’t belong there.
Why isn’t it beautiful
that there’s a part of my body isn’t completely
You are disgusted when you see my ribs
slightly showing underneath my soft skin
when I breathe in heavily.
Why are you horrified to see the very structure
that protects the organ I love you with?
Twice the portions,
twice the helpings.
Will I always have to prove to you
that I am anything but
Last time I checked,
you were a skeleton too.