by Jean Jones
The summer I turned skinny I became free in my body for a season— a dog allowed off the leash for the first time. Timidly at first, and then proudly hem lines rose as I became used to exposure. I learned to saunter and returned coy looks, glance for glance. I thought I was and acted, too. I stared in the mirror for hours in amazement, and then in the arrogance of illusion. Soon, my skin became raw, and a casual gaze burned like molten gold until I longed for my protective fat, for the first time eyes slid off my greasy body to rest on smaller prey. I remember now the glory of self abandonment, of swallowing fear and self hatred, feeling my body digest it, forcing it through my system. I had stood safely encased in a body made of character without physical dependence.