My body is at war
My feet are a small riot,
Walking roads with rough edges.
My mouth—a refugee camp—
Housing unheard tales,
Carrying loss between my teeth.
My body is littered with many hideous things,
From fighting battles
Beating scars of hidden wars
In a story I didn’t write.
Why wasn’t I warned?
That there will be no truce
Between my body
And the world’s gaze:
If my hips housed borders.
If my chest grew fruits.
If my skin mirrored the night.
I embody war.
My stomach—filled with hot blood.
A different kind of redness between my legs.
The war will only end
If I do.
And by God,
Wouldn’t that be the perfect ceasefire?
***
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