I am etched with ink,
stretched from yoga
and a dangerous habit of thinking.

I am balancing,
edging my way
along this
lifeline
which someone has placed high
above all of my years,
so that I am trying
(as hard as I might)
not to look down,
and
t
   u
      m
        b
          l
            e
into the past.

I am soft.
Soft like a peach.
Peachy like a peach.
Curvy,
pinkish,
yummy like a peach.
Soft like little kisses.
I love little kisses.

Strong.
I am strong like a girl.
Fight me, I bite,
not just peaches.
I am strong
of tongue and heart
and arms and legs.
Strong like carved muscle.
I love my muscle.

This is what I am now;
silver hoops and
wet wavy hair.
Naked.
Tan lines and stripy scars.
More bright thoughts than dark.
With a star, a chain and some string.
Broken wrist,
quelque fois je suis triste.
Big big family,
small small dreams.