Bones

Everyone says they wish they had my body like it’s a compliment to look breakable. But I’m tired of being called “tiny” like I’m not supposed to want space too. Tired of shirts slipping off my shoulders, jeans falling off hips that never filled out. They laugh, “You’re so lucky,” but don’t see me in the mirror pulling at skin trying to find softness that never grew. They don’t hear the jokes “Do you even eat?” “Blow away in the wind?” Smile like it’s funny, but inside I’m shrinking more than my body ever did. I want to wear dresses without looking like a hanger. I want arms that feel strong, not like twigs someone could snap just by holding on too tight. I’m not fragile. But they keep treating me like I might disappear. And some days, I start to believe them.