Body

My body is a wasteland and he wastes none of it.

Neck. Shoulder. Arm. The wind whistles through me; there is so much emptiness I think my bones will break from it. I have a hard time getting warm. Rub my hands together, curse into the cupped steeple. God damn, God damn, God damn.

I’ve been using my legs like a period at the end of a sentence. Feet together — hard; like I mean it. Like my skin was made for more than kissing. Like I was a person underneath it who knew just enough about saying sorry.

Elbow. Wrist. In the middle of the night my eyes turn to shadowed moons. Hip. Thigh. Knee. I have bore the weight of this woman-ness. Breast, not heart. Mouth and nose; I have been a picture worth hanging.

Sometimes I wish I was more.

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