self-image
There are parts of my body that I will never see.
I examine the angles of my wristbones, the fat on my thighs;
I pull my foot into my lap and prod at its tendons.
But I will never see with my own eyes the twin dimples in my back,
the ridges in my spine that you trace your fingers down.
I will never myself see the ink splayed across my shoulders
the stars and shapes you press your lips against.
Even the back of my knee is a mystery,
a thing I see only in the fold of skin,
in the sensation of accumulation of sweat.
I watch myself in the mirror, the shifting of limbs, biting my lip;
my flaws in a list, top to bottom.
And I wonder what you see when you are looking at me,
when you see the things that I can't see.
Your hands circle my waist, circle my breasts,
and I flinch, but your mouth is on my neck;
you trace my imperfections, your tongue a description,
for a second I see what you see when you are looking at me.