Stomach Full Pen Strong Jiaman Peng Face naked, hair a mess. Stomach empty, ink full, pen strong. Small waist, mannequin legs she dreams, But lips dry and eyes wet upon awakening. Thigh thick, confidence thin. Chest heaving for nothing. Recover, she commands herself in a whisper. But eyelids colored sharpie black, skin suffocate from powder, is this how? Oh she would love to have been made perfect, bones subtle yet showing under the skin, around the ribs and knees, chin cheek n collarbone, the coveted contour package. How she would love to have elegant lean muscle lining her body and make the eyes of men follow, their gaze glides up and down on her like a hand feeling silk. ...but that could never be reality, not the first part. She can love the paintings in galleries but not see the beautiful canvas on which she herself is painted. Her laugh marshmallow light, the best adornment. Stride brisk as a “Morning� hello, no more needed. Ring gold, heels silver, heart....heart brittle. But mind...mind a rare gem and fist hard like iron, with a right to be angry, with herself and the world...world on fire, and she’s adding more wood. However hollow, chin up, she knows. Stomach empty, ink full, pen strong, And so she keeps going.
Spring 2020 | 51
