By Sammy Ginsberg
I smell like breast milk,
but I'm far from the breast.
It's pediasure for old people,
except I'm not old.
It's good for me,
for he says I need to gain weight.
and i can see why
I am embarrassed when I wave my hands
above my head
and see the shadow
of sticks,
and I want to keep them down,
to fill them heavy so they don't float
but they do, and I kind of love them
because they make me feel women
in the way
masculine like it
in a weak,
please help me open the pickle jar
thats why men exist
im so weak
please keep me safe.
And yesterday, when I put
on the shirt with the hips and the boobs and the butt
I was almost there,
so close to barbie size,
and I feel so terrible
about it, my saggy clothes to hide
how thin,
but it's not because I'm anorexic
I think it's something else,
I think I'm sick
and those genetic stomach problems are coming true.
That poems depressing
I'd like some dressing
I wish I was a salad
so I could give birth to tomatoes.
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