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. 
Every morning. 
That I squeeze my melt into the fabric. 

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