This body

I have an unhealthy attachment to my body.

This hair, at times a symbol, of what, I don’t know yet,

This skin, proof of my blackness,

A shade even years of assimilation cannot fade.

It’s strength, a source of pride.

Arms and legs that flex into solid fleshy power.

Its weakness, something to be fixed.

There’s an obsession with this body,

A hyper focus on its creases and folds,

Of its denseness and pockets of softness.

How it looks has taken precedence

Over how it feels.

Years of wear and tear

Stuffed into an overflowing drawer

Of things to work through later.

Because I have time.

Until I don’t.