Body Parts

My body is bloated and tired. I neglect it. We’re always at war for one reason or another. I had spent much of my youth trying to make it fit within the confines of talking heads and judgmental peers. But it won’t. It can’t. My skin is spotted with scars, with veins, with pimples and pustules, and other oddities and imperfections. I count my marks and make a mental note to remember these flaws throughout the day, lest I forget and hold my head up to the light. My legs are thick, pavement pounding motherfuckers, and firmly rooted to the ground – I doubt I will ever spring up from the earth effortlessly as my legs are so determined to keep me connected to it. My stomach flows ever so slightly over my pelvic bone, and I pull at it, wondering if I could ever tame her. Unlike the rest of my body, my breasts are small. Athletic even. Bouncing jovially to and fro. Trying to take up as much space as their size will allow – like overly excited puppies vying for attention. My body – and I’ve never hated anything more.

 

My body is full and restful. She has my heart. We have never been separated from each other. I’ve spent my life learning to please her, and please others. She does – and I do. My skin is soft-honey-brown. My scars tell my stories. They span across the western United States: in raindrop filled evergreens, snow capped mountains, blistering deserts, and salty beaches. I’ve created a readable map – ink injected into my appendages – lest I forget where I’ve been and the person I am building. My legs are thick, strong pillars that hold me up to face you, all of you. I know I won’t fall unless I choose to. My stomach hangs soft and welcoming. My breasts fit in my small hands and remind me that even I have frailty. I’ve dressed them in silver and lace, and keep them bound close. They are mine and mine only. My body – and I’ve never needed anything more.

 

Let her rest.

Let her breathe.

Let me live.

Let me live.

I’ll make room for you.