I'll Be There
In the beginning,
there was no evidence he existed
except my breath still stutters
at the phrase weight check.
Dr. Wilson wore red socks,
offered sample packs in a manila envelope,
told me I was pretty and shrinking
in exactly the right way.
Said we’d do a quick exam—
just routine.
Hands under the gown,
thumbs on the outer edges like he was
measuring range or resistance.
He never said breast.
He never said anything.
Just held each one
like it was a question
and waited for me
not to answer.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t leave.
I said thank you.
Took the pills and the compliment
in the same swallow.
At home I bragged
that my jeans fit like an apology.
There’s no evidence he existed
besides my body asking
how many parts it must offer
to earn approval.
Except every man in red socks
makes me want to run—
throw up about something
I’ll pathologize about later,
by myself.
Even though it began
with his own being
irresponsible with power.
There's a day coming
when it won't be like this.
Copyright © Jaymee Thomas | Year Posted 2025
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