I’ll walk up to you, barely soft-footed
At the back…
Don’t turn round! I beg you! Don’t move!
For God’s sake!

I’ll nuzzle my wet forehead
Into your back.
I’ll put my hands on your shoulders.
They’ll press pack.

I’ll stick to you all over!
With whole body!
Even if they’re down on me and think,
It’s *****.

I love you greedily, endlessly! Whole,
Not half!
Asking nothing instead, recklessly ruining
Myself!

Sometimes I hate my body
But sometimes I feel like a hottie
It's unpredictable how I feel
The feeling of hated can easily steal
It feels like such a crime
But I guess I'll have to take it one step at a time
To relearn to love myself again
Maybe I'll feel like a ten
Having something of my own
Wishing I didn't feel so alone
To feel more confident in that bikini
Sometimes I wish I was just a little more skinny
It's hard for me to see other girls look the way I want to look
But in the end I don't want jealousy in my book
They say the prettiest thing a girl can wear is confidence
I wish I had more of that.

In all its colours,

life keeps unfolding in us --


deep within our soul.

Life is smelling, it's

tasting, seeing, and being --


able to respond.

I undress voluntarily
The assistants lead me
to the middle

into the half-dark circle
of curious students who
search for the connection

between my bare legs
and the light swell
of my white shirt

I lower my eyes
and follow the instructions
of the professor

as if I see myself
in a film, turning around
in the circle

of light
of attention
of thin voices

where is their heart?
I see it, there
buried in the scarlet and hurt
barely pushing blood and ready to burst

but it’s not from love. it cannot feel.
it has only hatred, burning for repeal
shunning calculation for sentiment and pain
for the thrill of what it was to **** again

are they sorry, in some part?
yes; but not the heart.
the heart still remembers what had been; that strange not-love —
birdsong that clipped the dove, (and let its shackles rust.)

so it is the brain that must do
because heart cannot feel,
and the only path left to choose
is to let itself heal

Hips are everything

between them, the flowering --


of the human soul.

The pleasant strangeness

of your body, that body --


going its own way.