this is me.

these are my hands,
that scribbled on chalkboards
and now lined pages,
hands that clumsily
built castles
and now chances,
hands that age and yet
grow life,
caress warm skin.
i pass time with
chubby fingers,
shushes,
power.

these are my arms,
that cradle children,
surround would-be lovers,
forgotten acquaintances
and kin,
these that comfort
the misunderstood.
i carry my baggage
and burden
carefully.

these are my breasts,
demanding attention
even when my eyes
are what plead for it;
these that make
gentlemen
consciously friendly,
hard to believe.
these images of womanhood that challenge
my womanhood
simultaneously.

these are my legs,
brown, thick
strong.
not lady legs.
but they got me up trees
in summer evenings;
and always ran
from boys
at the perfect speed,
fast enough to get away
but slow enough
to see.

these are my eyes.
dark, unassuming.
they ask without asking,
they see out when they
cannot see in.
they are the story,
they that tell a man
just what i need
or what has hurt me.
they own you after only
a moment.

these are my lips,
which from spills tall tales
and red
table wine.
these carry weight they
may never
unleash;
they burn into the night
regardless,
a mighty inferno,
each day
their very last.

this is me,
my offering.
humbling as it may be
to explain in such
feverish detail,
it is important to remember
that one is more
than the sum of its parts,
and i,
like you,
am very
much
more.

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