self portrait

first define the ground: if the body is 

not light - empty, pure, solid - it will not be 

a place for me to live;

to be frank, to be present - i am also a burden 

for my legs to carry, in constant doubt - do i dare 

give weight to my body?

you must think - and once spoke - 

“you have taught me more than i ever thought 

i could learn about women” - as if 

i am a bottomless mystery, a horizon 

beyond a horizon - like the vast silk of the sea seen 

from above - something

to dive into, or dig. in some moments of the day 

i think yes, i am a treasure - rare and raw -

unlike anything i have ever seen;

this is also why i cannot look at myself 

in the mirror without wanting to extract the earth 

around the root to become other

material - something more essential, less abstract 

and messy - a non-thing, a bird, the wind.

this is also why i would carry a glass 

bowl all over the city at 21 years old, 

and medicine to burn scars, smoke to consume

all the demons trapped in my lungs; 

being stoned was the only time 

i could look at myself in the mirror and agree 

that i was beautiful;

but on most occasions i have learnt or
out of habit, or even because of a resistance 

to will another perspective -

i tell the image looking back at me from the mirror - 

you - being that is supposedly

me, alien creature - you, nobody -

you, unworthy of beauty, compassion, love, 

healing, warmth, dreams, anything

good and wholesome - are ugly.

and how did i learn these things? 

if my heart were also a mirror it would reflect

another body - fingers curled into fists, 

eyes closed. because of fear 

the blood retreated back into my head,
safely sheltered all moving life force

inside the cranial cavity. to be thought is easier 

than to be material - tangible, vulnerable flesh 

and bones that make sound 

out of what has already been lived

against what is to come. i have become debris 

from stars dying too soon and dark matter 

made up of seemingly simple 

disappointments of a child. i have become 

what shame does to a face - 

paralyzed, marked by craters from a battle

ground that was once the soft and tender

inside part of an earth -

where the air was easier to breathe,

where the sun was kinder, and everything was kinder

where the muscles of my face let loose

and tears flowed despite the shame of being too soft,
and there was no need to pretend 
i was superhuman - that is to say - non-human.

now i am scar tissue, see? the lining thick

but smooth and so peaceful. i am still soft earth
and hard rock, i still have a body, cratered skin 

and a heart with eyes open inquiring 
about how to love and how to live dignified 
and free from now on.