by Belinda Roddie
See where the buttons pull,
hard, across the rolling hills
that form my bosom. How I wish
I didn't have to resort to binding
to feel comfortable in the clothes
I wear. Because the shirts are either
too snug when they fit everywhere
else just right, or too billowy when
they accommodate the chest. Will
I ever have the money or courage to
go under the knife, or will this small
mountain range infringing on my space
ultimately prevail in the end?
This is not me. This is not me. This is
not me. This is not me. This is not me.