Filthy

My body is not a chartered territory

Or a temple

Or a line to never be crossed

It doesn’t stand to be a divine semblance

Or a symbol of purity

 

Beautifully so, it is dirty

Wrought in besmirched indulgences

So foul

That I stick my hands in the mud

And wherever the hell else I like

 

I rock on swings and armchairs

And other human beings

I lick and bite and suck

Even when I’m not eating

I don’t blush red

 

I don’t mourn in white

I carry my sanitary napkins

In transparent bags

And I let my hemlines rise

Along with the apices of the buildings in your cities

 

I like weeds littering the beds in my garden

And a new body littering my bed each night

I stare back

At lecherous, scrutinising eyes

That do a sorry business of disrobing me

 

I don’t feel embarrassed

By red stains

And make paper planes

From magazines that cater to singular carnal desires

Despite their better advertising

 

I colour my lips

And use my face as a canvas

And I paint

And I pant

As sweat dribbles down my teeth-engraved collarbone

 

Everyday

I dress in my own skin

Undefined

By a spectrum

Of scattered white light

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