To My Boyfriend, To My Binder,

Dear Abusive Boyfriend,

Dear Binder,

Three-in-Five

Three-in-Five

Three. In. Five.

I was part of three-in-five.

I was with him for

One year and three months.

One year and three months.

One year and three months.

But this isn’t about him.

This isn’t about him!

Stop making this about him!

My binder,

This is for you.

You squeezes my torso,

Giving the illusion of a flat chest.

Giving the illusion of a flat chest.

For three hours a day,

For eight hours a day,

For sixteen hours a day,

You squeezes my chest.

Tight.

Tighter

Hurting me, cutting into my skin.

The bruises on my ribs match the bruises he left on me.

On my arms.

On my hips.

On my thighs.

My ribs are oddly shaped from constant binding.

My heart is broken from

Constant beating.

Constant yelling.

Constant belittling.

He wanted to know where I was all the time.

He kept me from going

To my friends.

To my therapist.

To my bed.

You keep me from going

To after school clubs.

To the gym.

To sleepovers.

Because I cannot wear you there.

To take you off would be showing the world my chest.

My female chest.

My chest that can only be fixed with surgery.

$5,000 to fix it.

$7,000 to fix it.

$9,000 to fix it.

I loathe my boyfriend,

But I love you.

This poem is about: 
Me

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