Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou **** me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more, must flow
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

1442

To mend each tattered Faith
There is a needle fair
Though no appearance indicate—
’Tis threaded in the Air—

And though it do not wear
As if it never Tore
’Tis very comfortable indeed
And spacious as before—

Dear thickness,
Dear bold flesh I call shelter of leg,
protection for this body I call home
Dear thighs.
You are more important than you think
more crucial than you've been told
more space than I know what to do with and
more vocal than most other girls' quiet but
your prominence is nothing to hide
your existence is not an apology ready to be given,
your presence does not want to be covered
the way you suffocate yourself into a pair of jeans is
a talent unlike any other
or on hot summer days when skin comes out to
kiss itself between your graces
leaving marks as evidence
what some would call chub rub,
I call magic,
an inability to resist touching,
Thighs.
You never let clothing,
or temperature,
or weather come between you
you are passionate lover,
the proud I always strive to be
the unapologetic beauty I wish was all of me
you maintain the confidence I have to dig for to find within myself
you have so much potential built into the many layers of thick
I cannot tell you enough how important it is
Some say you save lives and
I would have to agree
but still
I know that there have been times when I have neglected you
moments where I have been blind in acknowledging your worth
It is not an easy feat to love the parts of yourself we are taught from
such an early age to hate
magazines have always said be small while
you have always aimed for big
trends tell you to grow in when
all you've ever wanted is to grow out and
expand into a galaxy built of freckles and skin,
you are human as human as gets
I have made you into a warzone on more than
one occassion and for that I am sorry
I am sorry
for more than one reason
I am sorry that this world has twisted your greatness into embarrassment
I am sorry that people have tried to make an apology out of your density
I am sorry that we live in a society that keeps telling you to shrink
I am sorry for all of the times I have wanted you to.
It has taken me years to be thankful for your holy,
you are the answer to my every prayer for health
you are living proof of survival,
Thighs.

This is my proclamation of appreciation
This is my asking forgiveness
I never meant to make you feel anything but needed
Thighs.
you were not made to be thin
you were not meant to be shy
you were built to be the loudest voice in every room
head turning, eye catching, without remorse
you are never silent
even when I am
and for that,
I love you.

Do not write for me.
You- so perfect but humble.
a calico dress.
Your words patterning the hems,
sleeves, trying to match an ugly pair of shoes.

Do not write for me!
I am a waning moon,
against the
nuclear reactions of your words in
the sun. Shifting,
casually,
planets. Playing god to the

Egyptians, who also did not
write for me.
But did for you,
who lit their temples,
shone through their heiroglyphics.
Who adorned their pyramids in
crimson robes of sunset.
And I, but a stone in a pyramid
Plain, and beige at best.
I still light up and write this for you.

If I ever need to describe a *****, in words. In detail.
I know where to draw inspiration from.
I know exactly where to find it.
The spite, I think. You draw it out,
a long spindle of malice you
stab with.
Superiority, you know nothing of the struggles around you,
wrapped up in whatever
News article of drama starts circulating in your head and then you
Write your own letters to the editor.
Setting it straight, your side where you play the victim and you are misused and you are abused,
Without consideration to actual reality.
You, sicken me.
A secret? Let me paint it over buildings in the dead of night so in the morning, you must
Hide your face.
Hide.
It.
Now.
Let it be known that if ever
In any book
I write a character, a character with all the right environment.
Someone who picks evil, someone who picks the darker road.
They will have a trace of you in the very middle, a seed
That when they blossom will have spawned from my conceptual image
Of your very core.