I am uncertain of my body,
how strong it is, how little it appears that way
having hurled itself into danger several times
and coming out only with a few hand scars
see its muscle
see its fat, unneeded storage,
look and don't touch, please.

The soft thrumming of my heart
in my throat shows how strong it is,
sneaking its way up
to where it shouldn't be
see its battle scars
see its healing wounds--
still festering, a little raw.
look and don't touch, please.

I've got a strong jaw and a chin
with an irritated red galaxy on it,
an odd contradiction between
soft and hard--
see the constellation in my scarring,
a rude connect the dots you shouldn't be playing,
look and don't touch, please.

I look out from hazel glass,
flecked with hidden gold foil
you see if you stare long enough,
but staring would be rude--
see the one way mirror,
so that you stare at you and not me,
look and don't touch, please.

My fingers are long and spindly,
artist's hands,
the webbing in between makes them seem smaller--
see the raised marks,
see the wearing nailpolish,
my hands are an artist's hands too.
look and don't touch, please.