"Pretty is possible".
I hold down the fat on my handlebars.
The potential is there.
When I lay down at night I run my hands over my ribcage, relishing in every divet, every time the skin feels tight to the bone, loving the lack thereof.
I sit criss cross in front of my mirror, contorting myself and concealing one roll in my stomach at a time.
I'm not sure if I’ll come out beautiful or handsome, at the end of my metamorphosis.
I hope a woman comes from the cocoon.
Subtlety feminine but with a bosom somewhat forgettable.
But beggars can't be choosers.
Just hack off the thick slabs of clay.
Leave me lean and polished like marble-clad museum wonders.
Let me turn heads and raise concerns and never need an X-ray, because my insides are in plain sight.
Let me rattle like a wooden snake as I walk hallways.
Let me dwindle.
"Pretty is possible".
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