You’ve given me a difficult task,
to write about my body. Not sure
if I can find much inspiration,
if it’s any consolation,
it’s not my body that’s at fault
as much as I am, putting it at a halt
for such a long time
that now it doesn’t feel
like it’s mine.

My body
is like an airplane parked in a street garage
I try to blend in but it stands out
in any kind of collage.

I’ve often been told that I am hard to miss.
I don’t know about that, but I think
you’ll agree that I’m hard to dismiss.

I often reflect on the life I’ve led so far,
my prominent affinity for bohemian taste,
which usually leads to anatomical waste.
Not in my case.

I guess I have my genes to thank for
still having a good figure
and despite having my life spiced
with various and numerous
psychedelic sprinkles
I hardly have any wrinkles.
All those long nights flying like kites
did not leave any reality bites
on my hips, or on my face,
or any other visible place.

My baggage is packed in my energy shield
and that’s something I wish
I could keep tightly sealed
And I try, I really do,
I know by name every demon
I locked inside, and
forced to quietly reside.
They don’t escape but they do elope
and like a cloud of enveloping smoke
they cover my beauty with a heavy, dark cloak.

 


The dark alley – Photography by Kimera Jam

Alien, alienated. That's me.

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