Shell

The red lined indentations
Crossing my chest
Laced around my stomach
Are the touch of an entity
Closer to me than any lover.
Familiar and tight,
They dig deep,
Carving trenches,
Never breaking the skin.
I wear the ghost of a bra,
Of a dress, of a sleeve,
And I am never naked
And I cannot see my body
That landscape constricted
By engraved grooves.
I am negative space
In my Sunday best.
My mother dressed me
In a size too small
Squeezing me
Into places
Where I could not fit
And I disappeared.

Airline seats

When I sit down
The edges of the chair
Cut into my sides
A quiet restriction
And gentle reminder
That my body, 
Massive rolling landscape,
Beautiful voluptuous,
It may be, is not
The proper fit 
For most, if not all,
Of the world.

Fat people are
not blessed with
Resilience, or infinite
Patience and understanding
Rather, we work at it
Make a concerted effort
To ignore stares,
Or seats made for
Smaller counterparts
Instead, we ignore
Reproachful grunts
And imagine
That the world is also
Shaped for us.