Harness the softness of your ass with a grip as strong as all your vices. Slide your hand underneath your breast and feel it ache with weight. Knead the back of your thigh like it is dough, rising. Flip your hair, let your stomach fold onto itself, allow your fingertips wander to the back of your head, let them try to touch on every root of your hair – feel all the unused endings there. Feel them awaken.
I have a scar where most women have children – I get asked about it a lot. It is as much a reminder of my life as the rest of my skin is; the moon-full mole on my filled-out hip, the thickness of the soles of my feet, the oil you feel on my cheeks when I am dancing. My skin tells you nothing of the world’s prescriptions. It tells you nothing about my politics, nothing about the things I have read and the hands I have held close to this skin – the anger built up under their fingernails and the tenderness of their wrists.. But it tells you enough, lets you in on a secret that people all think they’re a part of.
And they are. I am not who I was but I am still open like seashells lying abandoned on a beach. I still feel the ocean in my glands like blood cells, still wake to sunshine like a cat, still open books like starts of travels, still frustrate myself with my desire to act a fool, still want to touch people’s skin in the hopes that that isn’t their outermost layer.