Swirling around Body, are passions.
Tangled, unrelated, cruel, indulgent.
I swing at her with fury intent
To finally destroy, she who causes so much angst.
But failing that to destroy and remove her
I work to decorate what insists on remaining.
Add color, trim hair, paint nails, whittle her curves, diminish her shape.
Manipulate and stuff this awkward piece into a somewhat acceptable mold.
Passion, anger, hostility, frustration, discouraged.
On a warpath to find what will force her submission.
What has she done to me? What pain has she caused? What is her crime?
Like an abused child, she shies from the deviance and plots of my mind.
I see her crawl to a corner and hide.
Jesus, save me from myself!
I wrote this poem recently, drawing from old emotions and new. I wonder, other women, do you feel at odds with your own body sometimes? What do you do?