I have written a million poems about my body. How she betrayed me, how she loved men who didn’t love her back, how she wanted more than she had, how she craved more than she should, how she liked the heat of a man’s palm, the swell of a man’s tongue, the taste of his whisper.
I have written a million poems about my body. How she couldn’t stay in her lane, fit in her assigned container, listen to directions. How she never did what was expected, lived in the fray, wandered endlessly from ship to ship.
I have written a million poems about my body. How she let me down, her down, him down, you down. How she was too big, too soft, too squishy, too easy. How she ate, how she didn’t eat, how she wanted to eat, how she wished she ate.
I have written a million poems about my body. How she broke promises, betrayed me on every level, grew outside the lines. How I abused her, filled her with alcohol, laid her down in unsafe spaces, starved her when I needed to.
I have written a million poems about my body. How she used to hang from the monkey bars, flip through water, beat the boys in one-on-one races, spring into four or five cartwheels effortlessly. How she can barely sprint now, how air is something sacred, how pain is something that lives in the back of her calf muscles.
I have written a million poems about my body. How I thought she would never grow babies, and then she did. How the creatures she grew inside of her have become the best parts of her. How piggy back rides and couch-cuddling exert the same amount of effort. How holding her child against her will always feel like holding the sun.
I’ve written a book about my body, a play about my body, and a million poems about my body. I’ve thanked her, praised her, maligned her, and cursed her. Now? I suddenly have nothing else to say. I’m done writing her.
My new book/poem/play will be fiction. I will write about a man and a woman and a death and guilt and love and hate and addiction and destruction and maybe some babies and definitely a knife. I will write a woman who has no body. I will write a heart with no home.
This is 39.
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