The Break Up
My pants and I stopped agreeing with each other
when I stopped starving myself,
when they stopped buttoning.
My thighs, packed into the unforgiving fabric,
could no longer handle the identity crisis
of sizing denim.
My underwear and I didn’t call each other for a week
after their seams broke and the stretch marks on my ass
needed room to figure out what they really wanted in this relationship.
My shirts and I decided to take a break
when my shoulders ripped the dainty fabric like paper,
escaping the abuse of stubborn material with no give.
My bras finally slammed the door in my face
after the growth of my breasts
made it impossible for them to be contained,
The bras could take no more of it,
Of the bigger, fuller Me.
I am alone and naked now,
pizza in one hand, coffee in the other.
It’s for the best.