Inadequate

"I'm here to see Dr. Lewis."
The woman behind the counter
scribbles something, presumably my name,
and directs me to the chairs
in the waiting room.

I can hear the woman across the room,
breathing. Her heavy sighs signalling
some great unknown burden.
In an attempt to avert my eyes,
I reach for a magazine.

Turning the glossy pages
of models in cute sweaters, shoes,
and short skirts,
my hands begin to sweat like a school girl
on the first day of ninth grade.

I feel the heat rising
from chest to cheeks,
as if I have done something wrong,
terribly wrong. But I'm just sitting here,
waiting to be called.

My eyes remain fixed
on these images, fixed on
the delusion that one day
I'll look in the mirror
and see someone different.

Sometimes I forget
just how old I am,
remembering the days
I used to brag
about how big I'd be.

I look down to my hands,
realizing now
that I have been tearing at a hole
in the fabric on my chair.
It looks much worse now.


~Ella
written on 11-16-05