The back of my neck is a squelching swamp of sweat.
I run, jump, play – but to what to avail does the lion prance in its cage?
My arms flail and the smacking and hurt burst blood to bruises.

I leave the realm of sweaty girls and butts in spandex
only to be brought back by the need of less skin.
I squeeze and pinch: so much for subcutaneous fat when all that is wanted is bone
and broken girls who are lost in the swamp.
Alone to look and prick the problems: they poke the squish that is them.
Hips: those immense walking waltzes take root in the mind.

Skeletons pass the waltzers and a tree grows.
Thus a reflection is the invention of hate: walk, stop, look, cry.
When will the waltzers learn that width is life?

Push, pain, rip, tear, and tears are the process:
A beautiful ten centimeters comes to life against the nipple of the broken.
Do they remember to impress?
The skin has a vengeance but the broken forget why,
how, where, and when they were lost.
Babies bring bubbles, laughing, blue, pink, and life – milk bearers still unmended,
But they give the centimeters their wisdom to live in the tide of their own self image
And listen not to the gabs and gibberings of a nation at war with its own people.