My bedroom mirror drums out the familiar old mantra:
Thigh gap acne squinty eyes short legs
Yes, I say; yes, I repeat
But speaking up, the hairs rising in protest - my right leg: stop you, stop
I work fine, don't I? I get you from place to place
So why worry
How thick I am?
Blinking to life, both of my eyes: stop you, stop
We work. You can see the world, so why worry how narrow we are?
Yes, why worry how
Misshapen I am?
The mirror's mantra retreats,
Cold, unfamiliar, gone.