I keep thinking of the shelves in her bedroom on which she
keeps her jeans, each separated by size like in a department store, like a
roulette wheel she spins each morning to see which jeans will fit today,
praying (to some imaginary god) it was be the same as yesterday, or more miraculously,
a size or two less, her life measured not in tea spoons but in waist size and conspicuous
consumption she must regurgitate to keep it all the same, and I wonder if she
takes an accounting each night, measuring where she is against all the ill
prospects morning will bring, and who she think she sees in the mirror when she
brushes her teeth before sleep, does she dream of it, the incredibly shrinking
woman, hoping to wake up small, as if in one of those 1950s horror movies she
must relive day into night, then into day again, an Alice in her how humble
wonderland who must reduce herself to fit through the keyhole into a world she
hopes to fi into, one pill making her larger, another smaller, whole the pills
mother gives her don’t do anything at all.
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