I wish I was a tiny french woman whose pants hang off her like drapes, who subsists only off of cigarettes and the occasional pain au chocolat but she never gets cancer and only ever smells of lavender. At night she folds herself into an envelope and slides herself into a book of 19th century poetry. But je suis American. Je suis made of cereal and crayons and corn. My pants hug my hips like shrink-wrap, my form shoving against the fabric, hips made of marshmallows and old receipts. At night I tuck myself into an empty bag of goldfish crackers. I nuzzle deep into the crumbs and dream of France.