My body is not the same as it was.
A most obvious statement with an
All too familiar accompanied disappointment in the truth of it.
It rings in my ear like a persistent alarm,
You. Look. Different.

It’s been a year since I had an infant pulled out of me from a tear in my belly, they pried me open then sewed me closed,
I’ve never shaken so much in my life
as when I was bringing it forth.
I look different now.

I reached out to touch her face but my quaking limbs scared me, I didn’t want her first touch to be by accident, I
looked upon her instead, and then I fed her.
I was so pale, she so red, like she took all of my
blood with her on the way out,
A weight lifted from me,
but not the one I wanted.

I have weight, still.
But I’m not carrying anyone inside me anymore,
besides the demon that stayed in her stead
and sprinkled dread and convulsion into
My abdomen. I see my belly, and I’m repulsed.

But remember, a gentle voice reminds me,
Do you remember what you have done?
From sunlight and water and time in the world
I have created a little girl.
And that creation still lies within me
even though she is without,
I am round with fertile ground,
I’m not fat, I’m full.
This mound on me is sacred and now used to hold life as she grows.

I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.
It’s become tree and canopy to raise
And shade a life bigger than me. When
I birthed her, I became as old as the earth itself.
And the world is not excessive, but abundant, and
Isn’t that a most wonderful thing?

I brim and sing with possibility.
I overflow and flower.
I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.

it won't surprise anyone
who knows me to find out
I'm an aggressive player-
impulsive, I see my advantage quickly
and take it or make one from go-
show no mercy, I love beating men
at what they think is their game.
see the shame on faces as they
realize their assumptions,
she actually could be good, and
should I choose to, you will lose
to me so fast you'll be on your
knees and not know how you got there.
It won't surprise you to know
that I play with a ferocity of
fighting for my life, because, in
a way, I am. my heartbeat
is tied to winning. But they don't know
me, and it's with disgust
and indignation I remember,
yet again, they are shocked that
this girl is a force, could
give them a run for their money
and have no remorse.

I step into the elevator, wait
For the doors to shut, hate
Seeping out of my pores I
Raise my hand and take a breath,
Land a palm upon my face and
Replace my despair with pain,
I gain a redness to erase the
Shameful droplets I’m so
Tired of mopping up.
I strike again.

A fist closes and makes contact
With abdomen then thigh, my cries
muffled by a relieved sigh
That I may release the fury that
I could not curry favor with all
My labor I have done for you, you.
I strike again.

The two lights up, and I claw
Nails into the soft underbelly of
An arm, it’s mine but it’s not,
I’ve taught myself dismemberment
And I treat my limbs with a disdain
They don’t deserve but I can’t
Beat my brain so I trigger nerves
Within reach instead. I calm
This dread of imperfection with a
Swift direction of more blows.
I strike again.
And step out as the doors close.

gather me in scooping hands
like marbles scattered
on a hardwood floor, I'm
garbled and tattered, a
pulp fiction with gulping diction
swallowed words and swelling
winds of sighs release at my
lips, I sip in air and expel
with a gust that rushes past
honesty and straight down
the throat of unsuspecting
victims who leave their mouths
open to receive oxygen but
instead ******* misgivings
in the form of a breathy exhale

I'm cold all the time, I think
my bones are frozen, cooling
me from the inside out and
that's why I shiver and quake
like a trembling earth about
to erupt and crack, it's core
dead, reaching the end
of my cosmic life
and ready to become a moon,
(is that how it works?)
let me pull your tides so you
may ride the waves of your
own sea while I cease happily
to be.

I'd like to ride again. I
wait patiently in line for
my ego rollercoaster, ready
to rise slowly, building
my anticipation, only to glimpse
the drop before falling down
down
down
into a spiral of nausea and
head jerks from left to right
looping back on myself and
ending at the bottom,
coming to a halt at
self-loathing, only to
start creating again so that
I can feel that tick tick tick of
my cart being pulled up the track again,
eager for the nosedive.
I'm addicted to the adrenaline
of feeling great and then remembering
I'm terrible and my art was the best,
no wait, the worst ever created.

the problem is
I'll never be good enough for myself.
I've no one left to get approval from,
they've all come and gone and I'm
left with me and she is a naysayer,
a slayer of dreams and it seems like
she couldn't deem me adequate if
it meant saving my life from knife or
rope, yet here we are, she and I,
standing on the same precipice.
I look down and she says my chin
looks fat like that.
I raise my head, and am asked
what do I have to be proud of?
shroud of imposter syndrome,
begone! Bygones, all of these
insults I've tossed at me, I
can forget them all each day
and wake anew, ready to redo
all the hate I slew at myself
just hours before.
A short memory is important
for my survival, I can't thrive
in these harsh conditions I've
painstakingly crafted, but I
can have a raft for these rough waters
as I traverse perverse landscapes
and try not to scrape all
my skin off along the way,
maybe that's a win, I'll hear her say.

When they call me 'prolific' I hear '****'.
churning out product like it costs me
nothing but a little time and a wince of
entrance pain that fades away.
doing it all for the quick gratification
of seeing yet another something by me me me.
I'm so full of poems I propagate like
my fertile little weeping pine, she's
probably a *****, too, but
that's her job and I'm doing this for free.
I've got less self-worth than a tree.