On the underside of my arms. My stomach. My thighs. My calves [i think of the time when i was eleven and The Friend poked my calf and giggled when the skin there wobbled softly]. My breasts. My back. My whole body, encased, like the wire under a wax figure.
I can't see my bones, I can't find them and I panic. I can feel them against the skin but I can't see them and I want them to jut out, sharp shadows and razor-like angles. I want to be untouchable, if you wrap your arms around me you'll be sliced.
I think of women in paintings, with hips and breasts and they are beautiful and peaceful. I wish I were one of them, dancing barefoot and naked with fauns and the grass but at the same time I do not want to be them. I am not peaceful nor am I womanly or beautiful like them.
I'm not a painting. I'm not Bouguereau's Venus or Dürer's Eve.
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