If you met me now, I wonder if you would hate me.
My fists are not chiseled like yours were, carved -
Into the shape of punching bags and broken plaster.
My jaw is not as sharp as the one you used as a blade.
And yet, my body bellows with the softness of strength.
Would you trace your fingers over the doughy bandage
I placed over your xylophone ribs?
Would your eyes fixate on the filling
I placed between your hollow legs?
My hips are tattooed in the poetry of germination,
Sprinkled with glistening lines of appreciation.
My arms are cast with the determination it took to walk away from you.
You were so afraid of me.
I look into the mirror and see your body
Transposed on top of my own, before my own.
Your corners and edges shook with the echo of fragility,
But my curves and nooks and crevices drip with the syrup of ecstasy.
I am remorseful of the torment and locked bathroom doors that were forced upon you
But, that is where you must stay,
The boxing gloves and weighing scales and measuring tapes alongside you.
We do not need those anymore.
YOU ARE READING
It's Not My Responsibility To Forgive YouPoetry
A collection of poetry written to heal from trauma.