I am the cursor on a fast-fashion website reeking of edible pollution 

and the mental traffic of too many girls staring at the same mesomorphy, over and over, time and again, each time acquainting the same lineated legs and jutting collar bone with its pearlesque highlighted artificial glow, and the clothes drape and slack and sway but they are 

just right. 

I am the ‘filter by size’ icon and the greyed out boxes as the final prevailing options dwindle and close, like virtual doors gently slamming shut as 

one by one the categories fade: bralettes, swimwear, miniskirts, corsets..

each by their own autonomy. 

Remaining models stare with glassy eyes, machinised, nailed like a religious leader to their white illusory heaven with all its suggestivity and lack of. Slenderness is a virtue, and 

I am the smell of an inferno down the street. The self-esteem bonfire. Come, take a seat.  

I am the immediacy of heartbreak for sacred few centimetres of polyester and the skin stains where you pull + pull + tear + toss + tug but every piece of movement is another futile breath.

Your veins are turning red and the tears too, they flow syncopating with the walk of shame into the post office murmuring god, never again.

The standards won’t let you have this and you are finished. 

I am shutting the laptop and curling up in bed, thumbs tracing bones tracing 

the places I used to love. 

Daisy is 180cm and wears a size XS