He is twelve. He stands in front of his closet, topless except for the new sports bra that he has to wear. Because his body is changing. He is twelve and his body is changing and he wants it to stop. Needs it to stop. Feels trapped in his skin; in the new folds of fat gathering at his hips, his thighs, his chest. Rips blouse after blouse, shirt after shirt, off of their hangers. Too tight. Too small. Looser. Looser. Looser!
His heart speeds up with every shirt bundled up and hurled onto the pile on his bed. Even the ones big enough, loose enough, to hide the new curves are not good enough. Because he can feel them underneath, knows what his body looks like underneath. Knows that this is just the beginning, and if it is this hard now, if he hates, loathes his body, himself this much now…
He rips another blouse off of its hanger; white with pink cherry blossoms and frilly cuffs; his mother's favorite. Clutches the soft lace in his fists. Bites back tears. He should want to wear it; is supposed to want to wear it. Is supposed to be excited about needing a bra. His throat tightens. He hates the bra; hates everything that it represents; femininity and puberty and social order. Hates that it helps make his chest look flatter. Hates that he wants, needs his chest to look flatter.
His mother calls his name, her voice echoing down the hall. "Did you leave yet? If not you're going to be late to school!"
He steps into the newly barren closet and yanks the door closed behind him. Slams his back into the wall. Slides to the floor. Cries into the white blouse with pink cherry blossoms.