I stared at myself.
Took myself in…it was me.
The one without the marks, the printed lines
The me from years before
I no longer remember.
What was smooth, firm, taut
Couldn’t have felt the same,
Textured now at every inch.
Took myself in…it was me.
The one without the marks, the printed lines
The me from years before
I no longer remember.
What was smooth, firm, taut
Couldn’t have felt the same,
Textured now at every inch.
The nose was smaller once, just like my mother’s.
I couldn’t be wrong, my sister thinks so too.
Not much of a liar, but who am I to judge?
There is a memory etched somewhere of a boy staring at me
Wondering how tiny it was
My waist, it was a 24.
The sharp curves rounded now,
Even rocks erode with time.
I couldn’t be wrong, my sister thinks so too.
Not much of a liar, but who am I to judge?
There is a memory etched somewhere of a boy staring at me
Wondering how tiny it was
My waist, it was a 24.
The sharp curves rounded now,
Even rocks erode with time.
A faint memory of breasts that had a mind of their own,
Refusing to budge or be pushed around.
Now with age they have wisened up too,
Not stubborn as they were, they adjust as I wish them to.
And the stitch that marks my vagina
Marks my life.
How would I be anything without it?
Refusing to budge or be pushed around.
Now with age they have wisened up too,
Not stubborn as they were, they adjust as I wish them to.
And the stitch that marks my vagina
Marks my life.
How would I be anything without it?
And in all that had changed, somethings stayed
The face that spoke my mind,
Eyes that tear up at news good or bad,
The pouty lips I had been forced to purse all my childhood
And a smile that could declare me pretty despite it all.
The face that spoke my mind,
Eyes that tear up at news good or bad,
The pouty lips I had been forced to purse all my childhood
And a smile that could declare me pretty despite it all.