I’m sick. They say I am
but mirrors are loud,
catcalling at every turn
I have to look.

When did I become a whale?

My reflection breaches out
of the river of bodies on the sidewalk;
I hurtle into the air
and slap into the sun.

It’s wonderful, but I’m sick
and they hand me pills that
make me sleepy.

Sitting in a room without glass or windows,
I squeeze the soft folds around my belly.
Something inside me swells.
The more pressure I put, the more I expand,
so I pinch and press
until my body is perfectly round
and my arms can only flap,
little pudgy wings.

Someone take my picture
because they won’t let me look.
I wish they’d declare me
a new planet.