For self Esteem
What makes this body the thing to return to every morning?
make a presentation of it,
protect it from the elements,
the temptations of belonging
the very weapons formed against me?
what makes this skin to thicken,
form a barrier between myself
and the meat of their tongues?
what makes me want to see the universe
through these here eyes,
full of a wisdom forced upon them
by cancerous growths,
when I should have remained tender
just a little longer?
what makes me want to speak
with this voice
this quiet mellow tremor of my spirit?
what will my voice even say
how and when?
will I shriek when it matters?
would I whisper when it is just
(the thing required)?
what makes me want to walk
in these legs carrying these feet
through this wilderness
where would I let them carry me autonomously?
would I have courage to tread new paths
leaving but breadcrumbs
lest I survive
the dragging through the muck
growing pains in my liver
accumulating fear in my appendix
what makes me want to multiply
in this here uterus?
what does this pelvis know of carrying children?
has it ever done the right thing
at the right time?
why would this time be different?
would I stretch to let a world through?
or would I feast
on my own flesh and blood
in the battle for nutrients?
What makes me want to feed its stomach
no matter how bitter the taste
will this body stomach it?
will it live by bread alone?
what if it must survive droughts
would I see it through?
would I eat what the earth putrefies?
how far would I go to keep it alive?
what makes this flesh
the thing to keep filling with life
whose only promise is death
every other way?
what makes this body worthy one more rotation
with breath in its lungs?
This skin is kin.
This voice is visceral.
These legs kindered spirits.
This uterus the very garden of Eden.
This stomach is intimate.
This body is mine.
the thing I return to