By Geneva Lorrain
My body is a work of art, etchings of past events, experiences,
people I have known over the years
finely arranged in the fat that lies over my bones, stomach, arms, legs, thighs,
Every day I heave my work of art out of bed, down the stairs,
from room to room, always remembering the pain and sorrow
of those lines, bubbles, bumps, lumps, pounds that play
in my mind.
I often don't see the sunrises, sunsets, seasons, flowers, skies,
I just see the same hurt that lies in my pulsating surplus
from what I have sculpted, draw, paint, imagine
I am the critic, the artist, both condemning, hating and creating
the formation of the self and body that I hate and others loath;
It is my reason for being but the cause for my longing
for heaven and hell.