The sixty-five-year-old bathing suit
Hanging in Nana’s closet, waiting to be wanted, hung a sixty-five-year-old bathing suit. Being of a lavender tone wrapped in sunflowers, it felt more and more unfit every day. So much clothing to compete with; Leopard prints, cheeky bottoms, these revealing pieces radiate confidence and beauty from miles away. It’s been sorrowful, exasperated. When did the substantial burden of body dysmorphia begin? Oh, how the trends have changed. Suddenly the sixty-five-year-old bathing suit’s cones are too pointy, and its fabric is hiding the beauty that is the female bum. Oh, what it would give for the ability to manipulate scissors. Snip, snip the midsection, snip, snip the rear, snip, snip everything.
It has gone unnoticed for so long, in a closet that is always half-closed, it believes bathing suits are the loneliest. Bras become friends with shirts, panties with pants, and, well, socks are loved by all. One-piece bathing suits only have themselves.
Seeing the other articles succeed, never truly going out of style, makes it dreadful. They are not only needed, but wanted. What must it be like, to be wanted? It’s thirst for love and validation are disregarded since... forever. Is it selfish, though? Is it entitled to its emotions? The old bathing suit wants to support others, yet is unequipped to shake the profundity of its jealous intentions.
On sunny days, it feels optimistic. Perhaps it will relish the succulence of being desired again. It waited, it waited, I waited. To be wanted, to be wanted, to want myself.