I have this full length mirror, a housewarming gift from a friend.
It swivels up and down and it doesn’t stay put unless I lean it against a wall. I keep it dirty, full of dust, thwarting my very existence when I look at myself through it.
I stay long periods of time looking at my imperfections, my gluten bumps that appear randomly on my ass, thighs, arms, and head.
I am not attractive, the mirror agrees.
I am merely blessed with words and the monthly occurrence of menstruation which makes my features nuanced.
It makes every woman’s features nuanced.
I’m not special.
Although I’d like to think I am.
My body is full of scars and burns and bites and I dress it in velvet and lace to throw off its gloom.
It can’t suffer all the time; it needs some sort of relief.
Walking around in this body I’ve at least come to understand that I was built to last. Sturdy shoulders and legs.
I’m the mule, the horse in case of the apocalypse.
I was once told I’d make a good meal, and if extended long enough, I’d last for days on my legs alone.
These are the type of compliments I get.
I’d like to think this makes me tasty,
At least fuckable,
everyone wants to be fuckable, right?