Waist Trainer by Allyson Jeffredo

we wrapped ourselves like dead pharaohs trying to keep their skin on,
preserving a measure of human touch. we just wanted to be smooth.
no longer feel the dents and ripples of our frame.

we didn’t lace
for the exaggerated billow of bust and hips, only a slight emphasis
like a person’s soft lisp on the arch of an s or the slim indent of
an ankle

we thought it strange to do this ceremony alive: to feel our organs
brush against our skin, feel our ribs form a ladder placed against
the edge of our armpits, agitated stomach acids forming somersaults
of grasshoppers from the pressure

each day we felt our breath drag shallow into our lungs, our back
tighten against the chair. when we sat, we would feel our skin pinch
across our fupa — a reminder of why we packaged ourselves up.
our meals whittled to the size of half-dollars, but our bfs thought it was
sexy (where’d they learn that from?)

after awhile we wouldn’t take it off, obsessed with our cutouts. we’d wear it
to bed, to the gym, under tight dresses and even loose ones, we’d tighten
it a few extra centimeters before we took it off at the beach. seal ourselves up
when back at the car. we’d hook the tightest strip until we needed a smaller
one. we looked so delicate, like a long balloon twisted at the center

our legs began to tingle, numb under the pressure, our ribs bruised and searing,
our stomachs cramped from the suffocating corset’s strong grip, our breaths no
longer breaths but gasps rapid and claustrophobic, so we undid them

our fingers straddled each edge of the hook, snapping one by one until
all 12 broke. our waists coming undone with the greedy thirst of
a dehydrated sponge, the exaggerated cinch free to roam back in place.
the voids filling, we sullen at the expansion

our bodies felt
unfastened, so lax, our insides finding a space like a person scrambles
for cover when it rains

Allyson Jeffredo has work published in Badlands, Tin Cannon, and Zocalo Public Square. She is a fellow of The Loft Spoken Word Immersion Fellowship, which allows her to teach creative writing and the arts to Elementary School students of San Bernardino. Her chapbook, Songs After Memory Fractures, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press this July 2016. When she’s not writing, one might find her out in the woods playing airsoft.