PERSON Poem: Birthright, by Addie Hemsley

Refrigerator lights cast shadows
on a hollow face.
Her tongue salivates at the thought of bread;
blueberry bagels with cream cheese,
waffles with peanut butter;
hamburgers with fries on Parke Avenue.

But pants fit tight,
when she wished they were larger.
Smaller than this–
the thought consumes her mind;
manacles of her happiness.

She always skips breakfast,
a busy bee without time for something
as simple as nourishment;
small not an extra small,
such a terror in her eyes.

“You should exercise more.”
a phrase that should NEVER
be commonly used in front of teenage girls.
running hurts her lungs, blessed
with asthma, she ignores the pain.

DNA passed from parents to children,
patterns of leaves in the wind.
unhealthy habits,
too much then too little.

she closes the stainless steel door,
trudges down the creaky stairs
to sprawl on an unmade bed.