she remembers embellished butterflies and multicolor sparkles on jeans in middle school
and maybe the pink Adidas trucker hat had been worn so many times a permanent sweat stain kissed its rim.
when kissing was for fast girls
not fat girls
and she didn’t know what bullshit those dichotomies were,
she thought she could wear shorts and scoop necks and tank tops without fear of being categorized as either.
god, how wrong she was—
remember study hall in that
hushhush space where a boy sat slack jawed as you ate a piece of pie
then asked if he could have some
no
before saying you shouldn’t be eating any pie
silence
she laid awake most nights wondering if her feelings
were too big
and how she wished herself back to skater skirts and simple hurt
when years collapsed and her curves hosted parasitic commentary
from that same
fucking
boy.
she isn’t the unspoken joke anymore,
the elephant in the room,
but she remembers his face from time to time
not in the multitude of ways she loves
but in the unapologetic donning of both
oversized rhinestone denim
and
not a single thread on her body at all.
//
Sweatshirt: 78 & Sunny
Tank: Aerie
Jeans: Lucky
Boots: Kate Spade
wallflower. 
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