The blue silk blouse
breaks before it
grazes my ribs.
I don’t want to die.
I want to kill
myself, my elbows
splayed above, up,
over my head stuck
in the textile, in its steel,
my fat—trapped—as if
I were praying to the skinny
girl, all B cups and bones,
I’m told lives inside
my excess brown
pounds forced to wear
Lycra. That girl stretches,
then screams, this is no way
to breathe, or be—
still, why can’t silk
slide, graceful, on its way
down? A lovely puddle
of blue, diving, unworn,
headfirst into the ground
beside my feet.
It’s art, says the skinny
girl then, and she’s not
talking about me.