When you wrap your arms around me,
I feel your fingers straining to clasp,
know that I fill all of the space in-between
and when I fit my head in the crook
of your shoulder, all you can feel is me.

My body hates its size.
It tries to wither before it blooms,
twists into smaller shapes that
gyrate against themselves, become helical,
unravel into stems and petals of neon and magenta.
I constantly fear they engross your eyes
so you see nothing else, nothing past them.

My hips are too wide for us.
We walk side by side and they swoop out
in smiling arcs, promising good sex,
salsa dancing and healthy kids.
But they hit your bones,

straight as my cruciate back and shoulders
when I push out my breasts,
telling my body to be unashamed,

and we teeter like Siamese twins,
awkward and ugly,
with unconnected hearts.