Body seen as a vessel, a child's cradle, a man's bed. An incubator, pin-up poster, pantry, second home.
But. Watch us bleed.
No amount of perfume can cover the mess. No hairspray, nail polish, eye shadow, mood light...
We are not mannequins. Not mailboxes. Not hundred dollar tricks.
Not wet-nurses. Not ambulances.
Not a pony to ride.
Watch us shape-shift before your eyes.
Don't turn away when we are no longer pretty. No longer plastic.
No longer still.
When we open our mouthes and instead of praise and adulation, rage roars from our caves.
Howling words released onto white picket fences, manicured lawns, lace curtains, duvet covers.
Sheets marred by blood, by cells, by us, becoming.
We hold the profane in our jeweled hands. Truth in our teeth.
The earth we swallow, hungry for soil, for green shoots of spring, thirsty for air.
Volcanoes grow between our ribs, our lungs hurricanes, muscles boulders, hands avalanches, feet rivers with no end.
Grizzly bears live within our forests, claws newly sharpened on Hemlock trees.
Hummingbirds ride the currents of our tongues-- as we no longer hold them still.