after Gia Bloomstrand
I want to stop and pick it all up:
the shame that has fallen in pieces
from my hands, scattered like powdered
glass around my bare feet. I tried
desperately to hold on to it, to hold on
to my composure. but it was too much
for me to carry. and now you all see it:
my heart open, my shame on the floor
for you to laugh at, for you to consume,
for you to examine as if I am a lab rat
and you a scientist, measured
in speech, calculated in composure,
firm about your facts for how to fix this.
how I wish I could hold on to the facade,
like my body is not eating
itself from the inside, like I am not
retaliating by punishing her.
instead, I keep going.
the pieces pierce my soles and I gasp
for air as I run, run towards a place
where I might never love this body
in all its shapes and phases, all its
oddly placed tan lines and ingrown
hairs, it’s strange little quirks as well as
the heartache it carries —
the heaviest and ugliest thing of them all.
how does one come to love that?