My Body

My body is a painting;
a canvas covered in tiny handprints
from a little girl learning basic skills
to the messy strokes of an adolescent
whose life is too colorful to choose just one.

Blue is the serene waves of Zuma Beach
that I swam in when I was a child.
Red is the blouse my grandmother wore
on the morning she succumbed to white.
Black is the hopelessness I feel on days
when there’s no yellow in the sky.

My body is a cage;
an empty cell of shattered dreams
that is almost as demoralizing
as the sound of her intrusive voice.

Sometimes, it’s a scream;
other times, a mere whisper.
But regardless, she’s always there,
so I yield to her relentless commands,
thinking that maybe if I’m thin enough
I will be able to slip through the chains
that bind me to this insanity.

My body is an object;
a porcelain doll adorned in
skintight jeans and a halter top
and a plastic smile held together
with my mother’s crimson lipstick.

I feel his eyes undressing me
as I walk home from school, alone.
I don’t turn when he calls “nice ass,”
but I don’t defend myself either
because no matter what I say,
judgment will always follow
in my footsteps.

My body is a temple;
a safe place where love is welcomed
and hatred cannot penetrate the walls
that hold my foundation steady.

Self-growth elicits appreciation
for the little girl learning to paint
and the angsty teen seeking freedom
and the unbreakable porcelain doll
who have all taught me that
even when her voice is loud,
and even when there’s no yellow in the sky,
hope will prevail if you stay true to yourself.