Tabatha Wharton

words

{musings of an aging millennial trope}



{thin}

  photo courtesy of Heidi Gentis

photo courtesy of Heidi Gentis

i am so thin
save for this belly that protrudes and betrays the bodies it once housed
i am so weightless i have stopped
wearing bras in public and don
jeans in the summer and resemble, in passing
the girl who last saw these numbers on a scale over a decade plus half again ago
but was just that, a girl
curveless, hipless
and so fucking terrified of everything
i bore less scars then on this skin both intended and not
these ones, for that boy
on this stark collarbone his mouth used to have to search for, which now
has the brazen audacity to angle out so sharply, so differently
from when this body was still lush and full
and this one, for that same boy and his dead son on
one of the few places i still have soft flesh to make give
never mind the stripes in all the wrong places now shriveled upon themselves as if recoiling from what we have become
i am so thin
so very paper thin
i think the midwestern summer wind may sweep over the distant plains and over these time worn foothills carry me away with it, to
somewhere the ache in my bones and in my throat don’t have words to define them but are just fleeting feelings passing through me
i am worn so thin
i think
i might just dissipate into

 

thin

 

air.