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.
Tori Shaw is a student at Franklin & Marshall College (F&M) where she is double majoring in Cognitive Science and Creative Writing. She has studied abroad in Budapest and Copenhagen, and in her spare time can be found reading Bukowski and drinking coffee. She hopes to pursue a career in both clinical psychology and writing. Her poetry and nonfiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Hellebore, Peculiars Magazine, The Foundationalist, and Talon Review.