I Am My Own

Don’t

think of me

when you leave here.

Don’t

peruse the landscape

of my breasts,

or linger

at the crux of my thighs,

Don’t

wonder

at the hollow there,

with all it’s hidden secrets,

and name yourself

explorer.

I am not

a painting

or a page,

I am not

crafted and constructed,

artfully carved for the pleasure

of too rough hands.

I am not

a still, unmoving thing

traced in subtle curving lines

for you to slip into your pocket

and carry home

to ponder over later.

I am

softer,

smaller,

vulnerable in my physicality

and perhaps less boisterous

than you

But

I am not

weak

not

malleable

not

made to twist

into the winding knots

of a pretty submission.

Don’t

mistake this feminine form

for a gift all your own;

I am not

for you to unravel

and unwrap,

to display in shows of friendly pride

and competition

I am

the explorer

the painter

the giver of the gift

I am my own.