They’re fleshy lumps,
rounded, wobbly,
muscle showing underneath.
I’m not a doll on a stand
waiting to be turned
and scrutinized from every angle.
I have stretchmarks
mapping out every part of my life,
scars and pockmarks,
bruises, cuts, scrapes,
a papercut from last Thursday.
It carries me well,
I don’t move like a puppet
or a stiff-knee Barbie
(I always preferred rock-climbing Cindy, anyway).
I can twist, turn,
leap, smack that
sharp tongue of yours
so hard you swallow it,
read until my mind is numb.
And live.
Yes, I can certainly do that.
