Once a day, he said. A salad.

I tiptoe through

the nursery,

across the creaking wood,

trying not to wake everyone.

The door to the nursery bathroom

is a barn door that locks.

I lay a piece of wood into

the brackets, but the wood

is loose and spaced.

I hang a towel on the door

for more privacy.

I stand in the bathroom

in front of the old brass mirror.

It’s warped across the center,

creates illusions,

widens anyone in its frame.

I’m certain that they can hear me looking at myself.

I stare in the mirror,

and I don’t see what I want to see.

I like myself, sometimes,

but it feels like the person

in the mirror isn’t me anymore.

I stare,

close my eyes,

remember …

a New York schoolyard.

The dodgeball

hits me squarely

in the chest.

I fall back.

My shirt pulls up,

and the innocent laughter

of other kids

and my own laughter

to cover it all up.

Or my father, at a fancy dinner,

before he says anything else, introduces

me to his business partner as husky.

I tell people I’m naturally a bigger person.

The mirror is slightly tilted.

That’s why I look this way. I tell myself

the mirror is tilted and warped.

Then I catch myself.

I grab the sink,

hold tight.

I won’t let myself lie.

Not now.

No lie.

Not now.

I hear my mother and Pick

moving in the gallery,

the sounds of morning conversations,

cereal boxes and fruit bowls.

I let go of the sink,

slide my hands to my sides,

grab my love handles

where they spill

over my pajama pants.

I can’t stop looking at my body,

and for the first time, the way I look

becomes me

all the way.

I feel horrible. Heavy.

Stagnant water in a bucket.

In seventh grade

we learned about heavy water.

Regular water has a single proton

in each nucleus of its hydrogen atom.

In heavy water, each hydrogen atom

has a neutron too.

Neutrons, unstable, lonely,

do everything they can to stick to the proton,

make the water more dense, heavy.

My body is filled with heavy water.

Unstable, I place my hands

around my love handles

and get a good, strong grip,

sandwich the flesh between

my thumb and fingers

until my fat fills my palms.

Why does it have to be like this?

Most people will tell me that it’s my fault.

I want to feel something other

than sorry for myself.

I tighten my grip,

and even as I do, I hear

Pick’s voice saying

he wants to help me,

and for a moment

I think about getting help,

but I don’t. Instead, in the wet air,

in the quiet,

I just

squeeze.

I squeeze,

feeling the thumbs

dig into my body.

Press,

press.

It hurts.

I let up a bit.

My sides throb in redness,

my fingers flushed

and pushed in,