Dawn’s pewter hush—then gabbling geese, white lace on gun-metal.
Pearled necks crane like a Baptist choir, rustling hymnals of disapproval.
I smile, wade in, let the cold tongue lick each golden thigh—baptizing their gossip with a cheek flush.

“Here she comes again,” clacks one ole bitty, “buck-naked as sin on a Sunday.”
another, softer, “But Lordy—look at that crescent moon she calls an ass...

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i'm choosing to forget the stick and poke image, 

of myself in my head. 

my likeness is one i want to be liked. 

the stick and poke is immature and elementary. 

think your high school aquaintance,

who always wanted a tattoo. 

but 15 was still too young. 

so they mutilated the innocent skin of their thighs. 

the mutliated image of my body, my face, my ugly wretched soul

b...

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when i see the girls who match my soft body,

when i see them wear the skirts, the tshirts, you know the ones.

well when i see them, i feel as though i must reach through to the other side

of the screen that seperates and give them a star shaped sticker. 

the stickers that, while they got their flowers, we coveted on our walls. 

it's awkwardly awkward trying to explain this to anothe...

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Stretch marks.

Silver ripples

on a pearl pond, he says.

I don't need him to love them, but

it helps.

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My face may not have symmetry

My skin may have spots

My belly may roll and wobble

My thighs may touch... a lot

Petals do not have symmetry

Mountains may have spots

The ocean may roll and wobble

The clouds they touch... a lot

I see the beauty of nature

Everytime I look at me 

I was handcrafted by goddesses

As is everything I see

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