The Break Up

Kali Fillhart


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.