The Bodysuit Returns
I thought we’d buried bodysuits,
deep in the drawer of shame,
beside the belts that pinched your ribs
and chokers with no name.
Back they come, all sleek again,
on hangers looking smug,
promising a smoother shape
then giving you a tug.
At first, of course, you felt divine,
pressed neat from bust to hip,
until two drinks, a toilet queue,
and denim lost its grip.
Inside the cubicle began
the old familiar war,
one knee against the sanitary bin,
one shoulder on the door.
Somewhere beneath your waistband
lurked the little metal trap,
three poppers full of confidence
and not a decent map.
Fingers searched in darkness,
temper frayed and knickers twisted,
while outside, girls reapplied their gloss
and shouted what you’d missed.
Many a woman gave up there,
with dignity half gone,
tucked the treacherous flap away
and simply carried on.
Swimming, that’s the feeling,
not glamorous or rare,
just permanently poolside
in inappropriate underwear.
Now the fabric’s softer, yes,
more breathable, more kind,
less like municipal leisurewear
with vengeance on its mind.
Still, structure tells the truth of it,
whatever brands may claim:
a crotch with tiny fasteners
is nonsense by another name.
So welcome back, old bodysuit,
with glossy modern pride.
I’ve lived through you already.
This time, nothing gets to hide.


🤣
🤣🤣 Eira!!!