My Body Is Not A Message
and if it is, I didn’t draft its lines.
Had I been its author I might craft it
more streamlined, an appropriate, refined,
suggestion of a chest. Some smaller tits
to hide behind a sample size sundress—
same kind designed for women you would grant
esteem. I force my way in the same bodice
just stretching at the seams . I just want
to be a body, sunlight on my skin,
a naked refugee of abuse and
cruel Puritans. They read a message in
this body never written by my hand,
genetic code I cannot comprehend
like violence for virulence of skin.