The Dressing Room

tall, double-sided mirrors exaggerated reflections birthing too many versions of me as I slip out of my oversized shirt

they’re all meant to be me I blink back at the strangers crowding my dressing room – misery likes company.

strangers that kept me company weeks ago as my jeans slipped right past hips that have no volume to hold them up anymore – my body’s symphonies have quietened.

necklines keep sinking as if my body is quicksand; a deceiving, bottomless pit that is beginning to shrink within itself

months ago the tattoo of your name inked within my forearm swam in the olive of my skin but somewhere along the way my arms dissolved into lanky, skinny twigs and three little words hold it from snapping completely.

my skin now desperately clings onto my bones; no cushion, no softness to break in between, sucking into my ribs like a cave holding all that keeps me alive while grief and loss eat away at my exterior and the strangers watch me shed, shrivel, shrink – I wonder when was the last time I reached into the back of my closet and found that the only skeleton was me.

the pretty little black dress taunts me from the corner hanging loosely on the dainty little wire the way it would on me

I slip back into my clothes and walk outside to disappointed friends and say

“It’ll be too big on me.”

“Lucky you.”