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,
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)