The girls with the lunchboxes full of cookies and chips and sandwiches
are talking about thigh gaps.
They question and converse over bags of Doritos
if a thigh gap is really that hard to acquire.
They are the dandelion-stem-thin girls
who wear bikinis in the summer without a second thought.
I am there too,
in the corner of the table.
But my lunchbox is empty,
and my eyes are glued to the spot on the table that's been there since last June.
I try not to let the shame rise up
as they compare the gaps in their thighs.
I don't join in,
no one expects me to.
My thighs aren't dandelion stems,
I was never a pretty flower.
