Body

A photo of my body before. 

A photo of my body on that morning in Kenya when my friends got sick along the walk to school, when I sipped on tea that wasn't sweet enough. When I watched the sugar dissolve like snow into the milky mess. When my thighs were too thin and they peeled under the weight of sub-Sarahan sunlight. 

A memory of the way my hipbones stuck out like bumps in the road that ran from my chest to my knees. The way it felt to be naked, flat-backed on the hardwood floor of my turquoise bedroom on 16th Street. When I would cry to the same three songs because the bitter angst of being 17 was too much to bear, but at least I had my fragile body. At least I could breathe when I saw the number on the tag of my jeans. When I would eavesdrop through the vents to hear secret arguments in the basement, when I thought love and jealousy were sisters.

The security of seeing ribs when I turned my body just right. The relief of a joke from my uncle, who would hug me and remark that my shoulder blades were sharp. If I stayed small enough, there wouldn't be room for sickness to grow. The many ways in which I was wrong. In which I am wrong. In which I will be wrong. 

The nights now, the real love despite it all. The terror of taking up more space. The stupid stuck zipper and the clothes I keep on hangers. The way I catch my reflection in storefront windows and feel the breath sucked out of me. The skeletons I admire. The skeletons I save. The steps and the sweat and the Instagram feed. The fear, the fear, the fear.