What the Body Tells

The mirror catches me off guard—

a stranger's neck, a stranger's shoulders,

all angles now where there used to be

something softer, something I recognized.

The collarbone stands out like a small fact

I've been denying.

Turtleneck after turtleneck

couldn't hide it,

couldn't hide the way

my body's been leaving me

in slow motion.

When did this happen?

Months of staying inside,

months of not moving,

months of thinking about everything

except the fact that I was disappearing

in plain sight.

The skin is pale from hiding.

The bone is thin from not eating enough

or from aging or from

something I can't name

that's been happening

while I wasn't paying attention.

I touch it with my fingertip—

so fragile, so clearly

something that could break.

I've never noticed how breakable I am.

The winter doesn't help.

The cold makes the bone more visible,

more obvious,

like my body is trying to tell me

something I don't want to hear.

I pull the turtleneck back up.

But now I know

it's there.

Now I know

I'm becoming someone else,

someone thinner,

someone closer to nothing

than I used to be.