Logic Doesn’t Fix Everything

I don’t talk about

the way I fold my arms in photos

not from the cold,

but from the shame of absence.

I don’t say

I know every trick in the book

push-up, padding, posture,

jackets that taper,

bras that lie more convincingly than I ever could.

I don’t say

I notice.

When eyes slide past me to her.

When compliments come wrapped in qualifiers

“Cute, not sexy.”

“Petite,” like a consolation prize.

I don’t say

I’m tired.

Of pretending it doesn’t sting

when every song, every ad, every joke

writes my body out of the script.

I don’t say:

I feel like I got a girl costume

That was on clearance marked down,

missing parts,

tags still attached.

I don’t say

There are days I wear double layers

not for modesty

but to fake volume,

like maybe if I fill the space

they’ll stop looking for what isn’t there.

I don’t say

I envy the gravity they complain about.

The weight they carry.

I wish for a heaviness

I could hold in my hands

and call mine.

I don’t say

I once stuffed tissues in my bra

at twelve,

and cried in a Target dressing room

at twenty-three

because nothing fit right

not the dress,

not the body,

not the world built for curves

I never got issued.

I don’t say

I know it’s not everything.

I know there are worse things.

But try living in a body

that feels like a footnote

and tell me that logic fixes it.