I was sixteen when I first mapped out the craters of my anatomy.
I haven't stopped bleeding since then. I was nothing like what schoolboys talked about.
I wasn't;
pretty
—at least not the way the ladies in the magazines seem
delicate
—but also, not bold enough
curvaceous
—but also, not lean
my name didn't roll off their tongues like a sweet-sounding melodies
and even while I was
told I'm just fine,
I couldn't help but want to be more.
I wanted to be pale — have pastel soft skin and watery blue eyes. someone who would be pleasant for their gaze, that is what my dreams started to be like.
instead I was burdened with folds of skin that didn't fit my bones right, blemishes here and there, and thunderstorms up my thighs.
I had hairs up my flesh that felt like bugs crawling up at midnight,
my face, my hips, my breasts,
and my name
all became the aliens that
I needed to fight
I was seventeen when I first started carving out on my dermis
little notes engraved deep as a reminder for my toyed pureness
all the bodies in my body
wanted to be wanted
scars from back in the day still keep me haunted
they are the labels that I carry
in the craters of my anatomy
I haven't stopped bleeding since then
I was eighteen when I finally
got tired of hiding
tired of devouring, defiling, and destroying
the torment still flows through my veins and my blood still carries the shame
I cry for all of my sisters
I cry with all of my sisters
I stitched up the stabs, the stains,
the shame
the pain somehow still remains
but now I carry seas wrapped
around in my braids,
half-moons painted across my nape, and my thighs no longer ache to be the home for the piercing blades
I mapped out the craters of my anatomy yesterday,
I still bleed the same
it's beautiful
it's delicate
it's my home
it suffices
