Being good

People said: “But you’re so beautiful just as you are”.
Eyes fell upon you in the thousands. Colonised.

Your skin would not become
translucent. Your flesh kept pushing into the air.

Inside you learned to carve out spaces. Potter’s hand shapes the clay.
You feel the hollows between your bones.

Lightness. A relief after all those eyes, all those words

about your body. You were good at so many things.
Dolls. Reading. Monkey bars. Cupcakes.

You remember the smell of your skin
but not when it started to make you feel sick.

They ask: “Why are you doing this?”
It used to make them happy when you were good.

Now they look scared. But you know what a feat it is, this control.
The host, starving its unwanted parasites.