In the dressing room

I remember the first time I saw you. It was in the reflection of a dressing room in that store where the light cut so sharp against my skin, my cheeks bled. My legs dragged my feet into that place — the concrete dusting up on the sides of my shoes with each sweep. She kept yelling at me, “Pick up your feet! Pick. Up. Your. Feet.” But how could I tell her I couldn’t? There was something I felt tugging at my back, a leash pulling against the forces pushing me forward. I should’ve listened to that person, that hand trying to stop me.

I never listen to the right voices, though, do I?

—

When I stepped into that booth, that room just big enough for my 13-year old self to turn around in, I picked off each article of clothing piece by piece. Tossing them into a corner against the mirrors, my throat started to swell or I thought it did. And that’s when you appeared. A quick glance, invisible if not for the trace of shame you left on my tongue as you flew in and out of me.

—

Shaking my head, I picked up the jeans I was there to try on. The skinny jeans all the white girls were wearing. The ones I looked up to like gold. Imagining walking into school on a dress down Wednesday, ready to blend in, save for the tinted brown skin peaking out from underneath the polo. Imagining what it would be like to truly become invisible. Showered in that feeling, I stuck one leg in and then the other. I started to pull them up to my waist but they stopped. It got… tight. Too tight? Just tight enough?

—

And when I heard her ask why it was taking so long, I caught myself in the mirror and saw you staring right at me. Your smile was as if you had been waiting for me my entire life. Like this is the moment you had always dreamed of. A reunion over a decade in the making.

—

Still, you were a stranger. Someone who invaded my space, my safety in this box of a room. I didn’t trust you …but that smile, dear god, that fucking smile could convince me of anything. It always could.

And as the light threatened to cut deeper, draw more blood, you took a step closer and embraced me. And then suddenly, the light didn’t hurt anymore. My feet weren’t covered in dust. Instead, I felt a warmth ooze from my pores. And there’s no other way to describe that feeling but it was just …right. Everything was all right.

—

But then you left as quickly as you came and I was there to fend off the streams cutting apart my body, pulling at the seams of the jeans squeezed around my thighs. I jumped up and down. Up and down. Until they cut into my waist and I was pushed out from behind the door by the voices begging me to come out. And when they saw me, I didn’t need to hear their words to know what they said because I said it too.

You said it first.

—

I heard it when you were wrapped around me. But your voice felt light, backed by notes of concern, of love. Theirs were harsh. Grating on the peels of skin hanging off my face, my back.

So I slunk back into the room and ripped off the jeans, whispering for another size. Another chance to make you happy.

But you said I’d never make you happy because how could you be happy with someone as disgusting as I was? As selfish? As lost in morals, in control, in everything? How could you be happy with someone like me?

—

Just as I threw on my shirt and was about to leave, though, you came back for one last embrace. One last whisper. You said you’d help me through this. You said you’d help me help you love me. Help others love me. Help me love me. Help me learn about love.

And I couldn’t be so stupid as to say no to that, right?