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.

 

Sometimes,

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.