there’s nothing like shopping to make you hate yourself
stripping off your comfortable clothes
in the claustrophobic embrace of a dressing room
with far too many mirrors.
the fluorescent bulbs are like spotlights upon every imperfection
highlighting moles and tan lines, discolourations and flabby skin
while scars and stretch marks glare at you accusingly
asking why you’ve let them run their course
then you start tugging on clothes
an endless parade of fabrics – all too big or too small
and when you can’t quite zip up those jeans that you know are your size
it’s all you can do to keep from collapsing
into a self-conscious heap on the dirty floor
by the fiftieth shirt you’ve lost all perspective
is this too baggy? too tight? i’ve always worn blue, but is it even my colour?
nothing seems to work on the worthless figure you see staring from the depths of the mirror
what an ugly girl. why does she look that?
you struggle through the last few things and hastily hang it all back on its hanger
stumbling out of the cubicle
with just two tops and a pair of shorts to show for all your effort
you check out feeling like you’ve gone up two sizes in an hour
and not really knowing who you are anymore
god i hate shopping