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My Body
The scars and stretch marks on my thighs
look like words as they weave together.
When the melting sun sits on summer skies
I don't just cover up and endure the warm weather.
Why would I hide words more intense than any poem I could write?
I'm so grateful for my body outside, and in;
(I wasn't when I gave myself these scars, of course.)
If you learn the language of my skin,
please don't read looking for any remorse.
This body is not an apology.
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