My clothing fits me with anger.
It resents me.
My face is swollen, and my stomach is melting.
My bum has gotten so huge that I can't squeeze it into things.
I look in the mirror, and it is as if I put a basketball in my pants.
I am happy for the muscles in my thighs.
And for the muscles and tone in my bum.
But the size, the size, still kills my thighs.
I want to return to Ny as the feather queen.
So light and floating like I ought to be.
I should fear the way bad food weighs me down.
And thrive off of clean substances.
My clothing loathes me.
It tells me so.
That I squeeze my melt into the fabric.