Body in the Mirror

I see a body in the mirror. It has a small frame, a rectangular shape. Its feet are stars, and its ears stick out. Its long legs are locked straight, and it’s arms look like branches, flat by its sides. Long black hair falls down its shoulders, over its back, tapering to faintly outlined hips. It has a round face. The forehead is large. Trapezoidal eyebrows float above big, brown eyes, and a sharp nose bisects the oval. Circles hang under the eyes, and cheekbones float above hollow cavities, a little too close to the jaw-line.

Spindly and precarious, a neck collapses into soft, round shoulders. The shoulder-blades stick out, and you can see the grave where a collarbone used to be. The chest is flat, lined with the sketch of a rib cage, one that once was.

Under a green brassiere, breasts hang down. Arms fumble with it, snapping the clasp, slipping it off, diamonds as they do. Pink nipples sag, and stretch marks glint red and white, red and white in the nighttime light. 

The stomach crinkles, and there are snowdrifts, small muscles making snowdrifts. Hips curve outward, a frail pubic area melts into thick thighs, touching then not, not then touching. Knobby knees follow, and so do pointy calves. Feet dig into the floor, and veins run through them all, rivers and tributaries, tributaries and rivers, so blue under rice-paper skin. 

I see a body in the mirror. Yes, I see a body in the mirror, but it isn’t mine.

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