on the days we lose the battle

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?