I Am Not This

 

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I am not this heat. This heat.

This heat stoked in the belly that once was firm.

This furnaced heat that spreads across my chest, up my neck, down my arms and burns my face.

This heat that taunts me. Reckless youth is gone. The days are numbered.

I am not this heat. I am not this once firm belly. This belly.

This belly that bore no children but cut one loose at twelve weeks and twenty-seven winters ago.

I am not this heat. I am not this once firm belly. I am not these dimpled thighs.

These thighs.

These thighs that ran so fast and whose strong curves teased men but, now soft, hide from the warm sun.

I am not this heat. I am not this once firm belly. I am not these thighs. I am not this grey.

This grey. This grey that streaks the shiny hair that glowed raven, red and even purple when these feet wore Doc Marten boots.

I am not this heat. I am not this once firm belly. I am not these thighs. I am not this grey. I am not this line.

This line.

I am not this line that as each year passes carves deeper near my mouth and thinning lips.

I am not these things.

I am energy found in form.

This body.

I am not this body. This body moving towards its good death.

I am not this body.

I am.

5 thoughts on “I Am Not This

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