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and the store is massive, a mess of denim

stretched and panting, hangers

of hip-dip and mid-rise, straight fits

swinging beside wide legs and waisted,

jeans bleeding out an indigo mile.


fat girl heaps bootcuts in her cart,

won’t cop eyes on sizes or the price tag

just loads until the cart flows over,

plastic clacking, a joust for which jean

will house her first. fat girl loves


her denim distressed, the weedy fringe

curtaining a window of skin, the warm

walls of her thighs wide and viewable,

and with her cart buckling, bundles 

of jeans hilled high enough to worship


the tenderloin of the meat-wet sky,

fat girl decides to try some, 

though she hates dressing rooms, too small

the wooden walls closing till her knees

knock, the lock rattles, the rug burps


a rank reminder of piss. Fuck this

fat girl decides and strips in the aisle,

hoists a pair up her snaring hips, hops

while strangers watch, and an employee

jolts in his blue vest, suggests 


she try the clothes at home, but fat girl is home

in her body, her ass quicks in its fit,

droops in bloom like a sap-drunk fig

and it is sweet to watch her, so sweet some

decide to dress too, unclip


their belt buckles and slip to bare legs,

small hairs flexing up their knees, heat

bruised in their inner thighs, the aisle

brimming with women sick of hiding, 

fighting a whispered wish to be.

Diamond Forde

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