My Body is a Party

a poem

My body is a party.

All parts crammed in a
small hall.
Windows closed, air
on standby, lungs
gasping.

The music I play makes them
squirm.

Eating the food I give
is like chewing glass.
Their gums bleed.
Water isn't enough
to make the journey down the throat
any easier.

At the end of the party, I
hand out gifts on
a platter of fake silver.

They open it up one
by one.

To my face:
you're not clear enough.

To my nose:
you're not narrow enough.

To my skin:
you're not even enough.

To my stretch marks:
you're not faint enough.

The party goes on
and on.

I hand out gifts,
they receive them.

It's a savage cycle.

Like a woman with an overdue pregnancy awaiting
release, all parts desperately await the arrival
of another party.

One where the air moves freely,
unrestrained. Infiltrating every corner of the hall like
a blindingly bright bulb does.

One where the food causes
the edge of their lips to stretch
to their ears and
their throats to plead for more.

One where the music moves
their feet to tap against the floor and
stirs their mood to soar higher than
a bar-headed goose over the Himalayas.

One where all parts collectively open
a gift I give and
it says,

“To my body:
you're more than enough.”

My body is a party.

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