She finds it sickening, her full-blown womanhood.
Those soft flaccid bags of water and fat
hanging from her chest.
That viscous, gel-like substance
packed in layers on her legs, back and belly.
She seems to remember that gel-like substance is called fat.
She hates that word
it makes that vile gelatine
seem normal, a part of nature rather than a perversion of it.

No, her body is no longer her own.
It has been taken over
commandeered for future use by another human.

She wants to be a wire sculpture
perfectly shaped and moulded, no unnecessary parts.

Dark under white light, bold and defined, an exclamation mark.
Entirely her own.

She wants to be a young female wolf
all lustrous hair, perfect streamlining
long limbs, and a pretty little S-curve for her spine.
Whiplash thin, high-strung muscle and sinew
for running and hunting.
She used to look like this
before that alien gelatine
formed like cancer, started to stick to her limbs.

She cares for only one thing.
She'll reclaim that young female wolf. Or die.