Breaststroke

It is a dangerous thing to be a poisoned 
young woman enamored with the water
and insatiated by competition. With 
fluttering feet and paddling arms,
I felt my body gliding through the 
saccharine chlorine rushing over 
my curves. I felt the breadth of my 
splash as I lunged off the block 
and dove into the pool, powered 
by strong thighs that also served 
as an obstruction. In the name of 
hydrodynamics, I cut my hair, 
shaved my arms and back,
and fantasized a scalpel to 
the stomach. I envied my 
younger self and 
dolphins for their 
absence of breasts
and punished myself 
for their presence. 
While in the shower, 
I imagined ripping off 
a cutlet off my own fat,
frying it up, and serving 
it to the other girls I 
competed against. 
I imagined their 
bodies dragging 
with the burden 
that at present 
tortured 
mine.