I always thought I would be too big.

Too long and gangly, unwieldy,

ungraceful, it would be too difficult.

You picked me up and spun me

like I weigh so much of nothing

and for a second I was flying

then I tumbled in the grass,

giddy and laughing

because I got to be what I wanted.

Just for a few moments

I was all the feather-lightness

that girls are supposed to be,

I was dainty and trim

(and didn’t have to carry myself)

and I was silk and gossamer.

When I landed, I was,

of course, once again,

Me, bones, sharp edges,

heavy weights

but for a bit I was someone else.

—who doesn’t know aching so well,

who never thinks twice before wearing heels,

she asks for help like it’s easy

she’s enviably at home in her skin

she glides and smiles and spins.

I was spinning, then rolling across grass,

shook it out of my hair, spat it out of my mouth,

resettled on the blanket and looked over at you.

you looked at me like I was

(still her, pretty, small, dainty, girlish)

something else, special.

I still feel a little big

(a little less so when you smile)