I touch my skin and shudder away.
How can my own body disgust me?
The hairs that ripple under my touch encourages bile to rise in my throat.
And yet she.
Her fingertips reach her skin with a grace one hopes to achieve in the prestigious halls of an art gallery or palace.
She discretely brushes her skin. Never harshly.
Her fluidity is unforgiving and unapologetic.
Her rich skin glistens with her touch.
Each movement is considering self-love and affection.
I can imagine the unity that fills her head with golden structures. She considers her body a network of attachments and neurons, all combed into one fleshy suit.
I try to think of my body with the marks of life and scarred ink patches without gagging.
I look at my toes in the thick shiny brown shade and notice the intricate veins in my feet popping to the surface.
The ties to a vast system that could at one moment cease to exist.
I shoot up to her gaze in shock. Can you imagine it? If you stubbed your toe the fluid moment of the body is shaken violently into pain and annoyance. The irritation would crawl up your leg.
I look at her desperately now feeling the imagery sensation suffocating and stretching my skin.
She catches my gaze as I feel blood rush to my face.
She simply smiles and grazes my shoulder in a blanket of energy. An energy that is living and breathing. I feel the twinge of adoration she feels for her slight figure.
As she walks off, I accept the ground beneath my toes and the slight musty gust of air shifting through my hair.
I don’t love myself but for a second…
It is bearable.

Leah Hardcastle

Categories: Arts The Burrow

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