a play in ounces IV

Since I was six, I've gotten lost 

in the sensation of being wanted 

by you.  

Desperation feels more comfortable

than comfort. 

5th grade and I will tell you

anything you want to hear

as long as we are across state lines; 

I am 16 and female and yours. 

I've worn your identity

like it was meant for me. 

I am terrified that no "me" exists

when I'm not being you. 

I am too clumsy. 

I am too fat. 

I am too quiet. 

I cry too much. 

I am the great paradox. Too much and 

never enough. 

They like building me: 

my arms and legs,

my torso. 

I dance like squirming, on display;

I stop moving in private.

Stiff as a board, light as a feather. 

I am made to be critiqued. 

Roll up your sleeves. 

Hide your back.

You, as a child, are what they've always wanted to be. 

("You are perfect,

I hate you.")

So they destroy you;

and in doing,

crown themselves victorious. 

You watch the laundry pile up. 

More comfortable in old clothes

for fear of a stain.