this is a love letter to my body.
this isn't a love letter to my body
because I so often hear people say that i
am a spirit with a simple packaging, someone
naturally without form but capable of so much
they say love the skin you're in, but I say love
the spirit, hiding. Love the spirit who came
to these fingers and said yes, who took
residence in those legs and cried out in
joy, who found richness in a gift without
precedent, love the spirit that reached
out with itself and grew a soul in
a shell, where you thought no roots
could gather, where you doubted the
integrity of a creator's hand,
Love the spirit, sitting here. A warm whisper
of a girl pulsing in the spotlight, who never
asked for your blame, for your guilt and
headstone, for the things you said when
you were mad, or the disgusted turn in
the mirror when dissatisfied with the
the coat for a never-ending winter
the vessel for without
she might seep into the very
earth and cease, be raw as
a blister against the wind
and seek shelter against
the other realms--
love the spirit, here. Because
though the lights are dim and
the tunnel is long, train tracks
need a destination and birds
never fly without a place to
love the spirit, here.
love the spirit here.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
this has been in my drafts for a while.
written september 17th, 2015.