I don’t think my body ever belonged to me.

From the womb my mother lay claim
with the umbilical cord around my neck,
a tightness that has yet to weaken.

Cute girls and cruel boys of every school age with their permanent marker tongues and highlighter eyes made me aware of its many, many errors.

Now, as a full grown woman, I think about what would have changed were I able to sing over the roar of my stomach or find satisfaction in the taste of my own lips.

As your almost woman, I wonder.

My shoulders, where you’ve rested your pendulous head so many times when even God himself grew tired of you, would no longer cushion your howls into slumber.
Instead, you drown in your tears as
they filled the reservoir of my exposed collar bones that look so good in a halter top.

These arms and all of its chubby that use to suction cup their way around your body and squeeze out the ghosts now snap from the hunger of a simple hug but are delicate enough to thread the needle of your extended elbow, like a real lady.

The rolls of my stomach can not catch you as you fall from grace, high horse, soap box and trampoline you to your feet anymore. Rather, the concave empty will greet you hard and echo your own self hatred against my Victoria Secret ribcage.

What my mama gave me, auctioned off and sold for scraps in exchange for the femininity that comes with being able to stand behind a man, or in his clothes, and totally disappear.

The kind of thunder I could summon with my thighs brought men like Thor to their knees. Now they house the Holy Gap and there is nowhere left to hide your sin.


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