by Tori Shaw
I bite my nails to a blunted edge. Sew my mouth shut so my body forgives me for devouring the sweetness of sin. If I fix the fractured things, will you see me then?
I want to say beware before looking in the mirror. These lips don’t taste like honey. And hard liquor is easier to swallow than the popular girl calling you fat on the playground. I’ve been drinking this blood for twenty years.
I lay my body at needlepoint, hoping it will cave to the weight of your hands. Whitman said the body was sacred, but did he mean the fat girl’s body too? These hips will never
My body says she forgives me. But I don’t believe her.