Poetry

Mine

Is my uterus too loud for you? 

Does the tumult of flowing blood offend you? Perhaps you are against life

My lips are meant to be lined with red pigment, plump and ready for a smooch. But they are open and gaping at the ideas you have about my freedom. My choice 

The flesh of my thighs has to cater to your taste. Subtle curves,  not too much. Wiggling softness in all the right places. I’m not your art project. 

If my bones sticking forth poke your eyes, if my jiggling flesh slaps your vision, if my scars burn your cornea – look right on. 

It’s all mine. MINE

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2 thoughts on “Mine

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