Her Silhouette

Her mother told her to take off white cotton tees.

Her father shoved kale down, and pinched her throat.

Her father cropped her body from the family photo,

told her she did not fit the frame.


Her mother knew her secret.

Her mother weighed the good and the bad.  

Her mother sided with her father.


Her father

now smiled at her appearance.

Her father

bribed her with new white denim.

Her father

applauded her small waist size.


Her mother wanted her alive, fed her

a midnight snack under the covers.

Her mother had no say. In mornings,


vanities didn’t make her beautiful. In the mirror,

she saw her torn teddy bear, her fleshy cheeks.

At school she hid in bathroom stalls,  

thought a toilet would flush away the world.

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