Insecurity is the knife that cuts your skin,
that pinches and tucks and peels, and restructures
the mistakes you were born with.
Anesthesia will delete any memory of
the sharp, cold, silver steel
they sculpt you with.
Plump flesh pops open, bleeds,
but they can stop that.
Just a dab here and there.
You want them to insert clear gel in plastic,
harmless, pillow-shaped objects
that your brother could have made in science class,
into your breasts, beneath
the ones you already have.
It doesn't matter that there are women
suing the manufacturer of these saline pillows
because the government has said there is no
evidence to prove they are harmful.
No proof they are leaky poison
in a bag. It's safe.
When the red puffiness and burning are gone
they will be just as squishy and squeezable
as before, except you might lose
a little sensitivity, but that doesn't bother you.
They will be bigger, that's what counts.
He'll never know. He'll never know the pain
you went through for him,
that you swelled like a fat peach in springtime,
that you nursed bruises like a prize-fighter,
that the stitches they used to put you back together
felt like burlap show laces.
the itch was as bad as the ache,
that they gave you drugs to relieve your
self-induced pain, doping you out of your
misery in an effort to heal quicker.
He'll never know when you slip off that 38C
you paid someone to mangle you.
You paid someone for a bigger smile on some man's face when he says,
after the blood, after the slicing and inserting,
after the stuffing and mashing and sewing
you up like a Thanksgiving turkey,
Causes Katherine McWilliams Supports
The Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation jdrf.org Macula Vision Research Foundation mvrf.org Washington Office on Latin America wola.org/juarez