Tube Socks Aren't Real

Leah Nelson

At seven I sneaked one of my
mom's tiny peach pills--
the ones in the plastic
compact you poke through
silver foil. I thought it would
turn me into a woman. And
that night I put a pad in my
panties just to pretend I had
my period. I tangled my hair
around a curling iron, colored
my lips, shoved tube socks
down my shirt. I even wished
on a star--I wish I had big
boobs, a car, and lips that
always shined. At thirteen
I learned what that little peach
pill was for. I became angry
with my AA breasts, thinking,
they were just extra fat the boys
thought was attractive. They
were pointed anthills, sore when
touched, and the larger they'd
get, the more the boys would
look at me, and maybe want
to touch me, have sex with me.
I tissued off lipstick, brushed
out my curls, but couldn't just
reach down and yank out tube
socks, couldn't keep my hips
from widening. Womanhood
meant fat--I wanted to be ten
again, flat-chested and safe. So
I stopped eating, butter and sugar,
wouldn't touch mayonnaise,
cream cheese or pizza, started
throwing up bananas, pasta and
yogurt, trying to shrink my breasts,
and stop my hips, pining for
those innocent days of, "Girls
on the left, boys on the right."