What do I know about the body?

Not that much.

At school, I learned

the biggest part of it

is water—that we are like shores

protected by skin.

Maybe that is the reason

I like to compare people to

clear lakes,

sea waves, and

cold rivers.

What do I know about the body?

I most definitely know how to paint

the skin on canvas.

I mix

lemon yellow,

deep red,

marine blue, and

titanium white.

I also know the skin sometimes betrays us.

Red, itchy wounds on my palms are

a telling of sleepless nights

on bathroom tiles.

A telling of obsessive thoughts

about the one

whose name is forbidden to mention

by my psychotherapist.

What do I know about the body?

I have heard it contains the soul.

I imagine hidden jars there—

ones that contain honey, and

other ones that are filled with stars.

The not so lucky ones contain the

embryos that were never born.

What do I know about the body?

The body can be given away—

divided amongst open mouths

or sprinkled like never-ending sand in the desert,

extinguishing eternal flames.

What have I learned about the body?

The body is just a body

until you let it show

where the pain is.