Cheaply painted toes,
The curl betraying apprehension.
Calloused heels have long accepted
Their lowly place in the world.
Scarred shins, sore knees.
Tired from carrying the weight of Shame.
Stomach painfully aware of its emptiness.
Hope and loss. Butterflies and knots.
Breasts. Heads hung in embarrassment.
Thirty years of neglect and hate.
Desperate scratch marks and blood stains left
Around the empty hole where a heart used to live.
A bloody trail viciously revealing
Its failed escape. How far can you run?
You now sit precarious on a sleeve.
Unwanted and exposed,
Available to abuse.
Pale fingers and palms
Hold tightly the ends,
Trying in vain to hide you.
Thirty years of pain and irreverence.
Shoulders upright – fake bravado,
Knows Atlas’ pain, has shrugged aplenty.
Putting on a show as they ceremoniously hold
The crown of a remorseful monarch.
The mind discerning – quiet and clinical.
Your body is a temple, they said.
A feeble body weakens the mind.
It is your only home.
This vessel that holds your most precious possession,
You have shunned. Left it out to rot.