My feet, some say too small, I say just right. They wear down my shoes to dust.
My calves, toned due to the many steps I take per day. Muscle and bone, something I love.
My knees, popping and cracking. Probably not healthy.
My thighs, small, but not too small, just right. Marked and stretched a tad, but two things I'm wanting to begin to love.
My hips, tiny enough to fit into a woman's size 0, but I'd rather not be in women's, rather men's.
My waist, hour glass shaped. Something that seems to be the equivalent to handle bars for my parents.
My chest, I wish you were flatter. I wish you didn't exist. I want to learn magic so I can make you disappear.
My collarbone, it pleases me. Never seems to disappoint.
My hands, they are one of my best doers. I can't write with them, I can speak with them, I can do so much with them.
My arms, they carry and hold the things I care for. Like my pets, my work, and my partners.
My shoulders, something I don't like to show off, but the Texas heat forces me to.
My neck, something sensitive, something people seem to appriciate, something your hands thought they had a right to surround.
My head, filled with voices, delusions, and a cocktail of problems. My head is probably pretty but a bad trait of my own. My eyes, ears, nose, and tongue all have false senses. My brain also causes my nerves to feel imaginary things.
My body, my body is built on good and bad parts, some things can be cured by pills, some by a different view of my image. But, on well, from my toes to my scalp, I have to deal with it, don't I?