An Open Letter

There are places

under clothes

where I have

expanded, and I feel as if

I am suffocating

inside blankets of poly-cotton

and 2% spandex,

but I have never

not bulged,

not once in my life;

I don't know why you're suddenly

surprised by it.

You have scratched raw the skin

of our thighs, made bloody

holes in the surface

with my own

fingernails,

and I am tired of being

my enemy.

I dread the mirror more than you do.

I take you out,

I walk you up mountains

and endure the torture of

high-heeled shoes,

I dance for you when you

want me to,

it is my arms with which you

embrace

the ones you care for,

my lips that facilitated your

first real kiss but it was you

who fell in love.

It was me he laid his hands on

every evening.

It was I who grew short of

breath with his touch.

Maybe that is why

you cannot love me.