For the past several years
I have been writing break-up poetry,
About my body
How I am ready to be finally rid of it
To totally forget about it
Find a newer better one
How I wish I could have fixed it
How I tried,
How I’m trying to cut it out of my life
Starve it out of my garden, like a ****
I have been writing sad poetry about my body
About how it is dying
And dead
How it is broken
Had all the stuffing ripped out of it
Like a crackhead’s couch
Sitting out in the yard,
Free for the taking, but wet from the rain
And I have written this poetry for too long
I have spent too much time,
Breaking up with, feeling guilty over
And sad about
My body
And maybe that won’t change
Maybe I will always wish it to be different
But maybe I can learn to love it too
So maybe I should write for it some love poetry
For The way it stands effortless, a mechanical marvel in a stiff breeze
A wonder of motion, a running straining lifting machine
That does things,
Even the most sophisticated of machines, have yet to replicate
And how the pink mush between the ears
Lights the eyes like Christmas
And turns the body,
This body, this body that I hate, this body that I need
How it turns the body,
Into me
