I will never be mistaken for my brother’s girlfriend,
which is a fucked up thing to be bitter about

and yet here we are

at an up-scale (too expensive) white-bright
(garishly lit) casino boutique

where size sixteen is a nonexistent abomination,

where I couldn’t fit half an ass
cheek into a pair of jeans if I tried

and where the saleswoman makes assumptions as soon as we walk in.

I can see her doing the math:
[1] picture perfect beauty + [1] handsome guy

• {1 fat girl}

= [1 attractive couple] and
{1 sad tag-along}.

we laugh her off, explain we’re all siblings,

but even if you took picture perfect out of the equation,
the math still wouldn’t add up.

fat plus handsome just doesn’t compute with the industry standard.

I will always be muchtoomuch
to fit into any equation,

an unsolvable variable: the third wheel.

they have their own insecurities,
I try to remind myself.

when his hair began thinning at sixteen, he shaved his head

and never stopped.
the scars from infancy have grown with her,

jagged, raised vines climbing up her calves.

we all have our own insecurities – but they have owned theirs
and at twenty-seven, I was still trying to own mine.

at thirty-four, I am still trying to own mine.

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