I do not know so much about bodies
But the chemistry I share with mine
is an improper fraction

When you see me slouch
It is the silhouette of a girl
Afraid of living in her own body
Because it is a boulevard of anguish

How my body has become a slate for writing wannabe miracles
A litmus paper for religious test
A failed practical

It is how I invade a church and have a cleric place his coat on me
Groan in the language of spirits
And quickly snap through the exit

How I have become an adjective
to the ones I call friends
And the colour of my pain plastered on their lips
Its splash and smear on my identity

My body is a saboteur
A reservoir for excruciating pain

Today, I conclude that my body is a tourist attraction

It is the label I wear each time you compliment me for being a woman
And how I submerge into a fickle phase
I do not like how she makes me feel

It is how my body has become a daily bread
A three course meal for barter
An open tap gushing without my consent

How I have become a playground

I do not want to talk about my crumpled maroon sheets
How I unwrap the grime after every slumber
Or how I’m in a conflict with self

When I count my worries
They come in odd numbers

So, I’m still here
A clone
Lost in the very essence of finding herself

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