My face doesn't want
to be kissed, really,
Do leave it alone
to posture and pose.

Stomach wants to walk
to the hot dog stand
over and over
till it gets too full.

My legs are all of
hairy, lumpy, fat
a cool scratching post
for your furry cat.

Arms don't want to hold
they're just to push me
away from your mouth
and face, and eyes,
that just want to close.

What is there to see?
Whatever you want
me to see, I know.

My back wants to see
you standing cold there;
hips holding your hands.
I hate that you are
not what I want now.
My gut tells me this.
And really, my face
doesn't want to be kissed.