apple

While you chew the last bite of oatmeal and it burns behind your lungs, you push the medicine cabinet shut. It is at an angle because it is old and because you will not fix it and because of these things your head is cut off and your body stops at the curve where your legs begin. You think, well this wouldn’t be so bad, really. And you admire the flatness of your stomach when the air is in your chest, but you are afraid to let it go, sink to your bellybutton, remind you that you are and Apple, not a Pear. You think, Soon the oatmeal will make this happen. You think that you’d better not where the shirt so tight. You’re going out for lunch in a few hours. You’re reminded that once, you ate yogurt for breakfast and peanuts for lunch and your cheeseburgers without the bun. You remind yourself that this is better, that your weight is a Woman’s and soon you’ll want children. And you stop breathing a bit at this, not holding it in your chest, not dropping it to your belly. Feeling what it means to have nothing there. You breathe again and think of thin, Parisian arms, then look at yours.