The spandex is a lie I’m trying to tell

The spandex is a lie I’m trying to tell,

but the mirror isn't buying the story.

I’m a spill, a soft, uncontained swell

of what used to be tight, or at least—sorry,

I’m staring at the place where I began.

It’s a puckered scar, a little valley of skin

hiding a spiral of grey sweater fuzz,

a small, stubborn anchor for the person I was

before the middle of me started to thin.

It’s a drain, I think. Or an entry point

where the world can just reach right in

and unhinge me at every single joint.