What the fuck is this??
There are not one,
not two,
but three
gaps between
the shower curtain
and the wall,
allowing anyone to freely get a peek
at what’s inside
like looking through a peephole
in a door
or listening to the next room
with your ear
against the wall.
Seriously??
The one thing I want
during a shower is
peace
and you just took that
away from me?
Others able to get a peek
at what a woman’s body looks like
whenever they want?
Don’t you know that
I do not have a woman’s body?
That I am not Venus?
That I am not Aphrodite?
That I am simply me?
The strands of brown hair
slinking into the drain.
The red splotches
on my shoulders
I don’t even know what they are
or how they got there.
The red scar on my stomach
from when I had appendicitis in third grade,
the memory of when my mom would take me
down the hallway
into a waiting room with a fish tank
and I would make the eel talk
because that’s the kind of person I am
flooding over me
like the water dripping
down my back.
My veins
bleeding blue
like you could string them up
like fairy lights,
watch them glow
in the dimly lit sky
of my heart.
My heart glowing
as I slink into a towel.
Attempt to dry myself
quickly
so no one can see
the body
I never asked for.
Look, I know a body image poem
is the most 14 year old thing
I could ever write.
You have seen this poem before,
I know you have.
Maybe you have even written this poem before
on bathroom mirrors
and post it notes,
anything you could quickly find.
But even here,
standing in a communal bathroom shower,
the warm water hitting against my back
like a mallet to a bass drum,
I know
I am imperfect.
I am the last puzzle piece
that does not fit
with any of the other
puzzle pieces,
clunky and frustrating
and wrong.
I am the plastic piece in your dishwasher
that has broken off
and now you can’t use
the top rack
because it won’t pull out
of its home.
I am the chipped mug
you used to have your coffee in
but when you cut your tongue on me,
you threw me away.
I sing way too loudly
when I’m scared
and have panic attacks
in bathrooms,
hearts ticking
like little time bombs
against white porcelain
ready to explode
at any second.
I agonize over talking to you,
draft words I hope make sense
in my brain
but then lose them all
when I see your smile.
I love way too quickly
and resort to being alone
when I really need help.
I am not perfect.
This shower curtain
is the perpetrator of
my vulnerability,
allowing others to see
the internal organs
and emotions
that make up this body
that’s been given to me.
This body I’m still learning how to love,
even at eighteen,
even at nineteen,
probably forever
and that’s okay.
I just didn’t need other people
to see the battle,
to hear the war cry,
to know I’m not perfect
before they learned
who I really am:
Just a girl
trying her best
to live.
