Amy

If a mirror enlarges fear,
then yours reflects your body.
And I watch your face study
imaginary imperfections.
Your fingertips nip and tuck at your skin.
But it is so distorted and does not match
the image of a stunning petite girl,
standing in front of me;
asking if that skirt makes your tummy stick out.

I would melt myself into silver
before your convictions took hold.
And the curve of your hips
wasn’t a measuring distance,
your moles digits between what is skinny and large.
I’d reach into the glassy exterior
and adjust the position of your smile,
then I’d tell you to look at a portrait
of the most beautiful girl who ever lived.