December 15, 2017
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When I was around eight years old,
I noticed that many of my friends had "hollow ankles" as I called them
Along the sides of the heel tendon,
Two perfect divots.

I would sit on my purple-quilted bed
Knees pulled up to my chest,
Pressing my finger and thumb into my heel,
Over and over

I thought that I could be like them
But I couldn't.
My ankles are solid, no matter how much pressing I do,
No matter how much I run, eat kale, or drown myself in green juice

Even the smallest things contribute a shard to the fun-house mirror
Hollow ankles, skeleton hands, jawlines
We are conditioned to be unhappy with what we have,
And to strive for the impossible.

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