I once spent a twenty-two
hour flight with my hands under my ass.
It was too bony, and I
was too starved to stand the crush
of pelvis on hard airplane seats.
Back then, I was hungry
to disappear—just a few
less bites and Ta da!
I’m all gone. There were times
I was happy
I got no arm rests (What
does such a skinny thing need
all that space for?), the You get any thinner,
you’ll disappear from the lipsticked attendant.
And I smiled. Anoretics, we don’t
start out trying to kill ourselves.
But that’s what it becomes—
and it’s a crawling death. A painful one, all
heart attacks and broken hips. Disappearing,
it’s not easy. You know? But that desire
to not be seen, to waft
down the aisles like a ghost,
it’s strong. And we’re strong, you think
it’s nothing to keep our lips closed?
We’re hungry all the time. Until we’re not,
until we’re not hosting the disappearing
act, we’re the unwitting audience member
clawing at the magician’s box as the saw
chews closer. Now, I want to be seen. Take
up space, elbow into every inch
of that overpriced seat I put on credit
and not give a damn if I eat
every mediocre plate that trolleys by.