Sometimes I feel about my body
the way meat must feel about
sausage casings. Too many
circles forced inside squares,
too many curves held captive behind societal bars.
I stand in the mirror, gathering
of fistfuls of fat that turn into rolls,
and I count the numbers on the scale as if
my weight holds the secret to my self worth.
My body is a bag of Doritos chips,
fingers stained with the memory of last night,
body half bloated with air.
I can feel each wrinkle and crinkle
without even opening my eyes.
I wonder if all these rolls and hurdles are
actually just figments of a fractured imagination.
Maybe my body stands naked before the mirror,
bones jutting out from flesh, limbs shaking
in the cold grasp of reality.
Maybe the tremors that congregate in my
thighs as I walk, are just the natural vibrato
of my body’s harmony.
Maybe, and just maybe, we weren’t meant to perfect,
And maybe, just maybe, that might be okay.