My
stubby
fingertips.
(For
those,
too).
For
these
hands
that
hold
My
niece’s
baby
fingers
one
day
And
a
pocket
knife
the
next.
For
this
body
I
love
in,
For
my
emotions
tangling
like
spaghetti
And
curly
hair,
And
a
heart
always
Off-‐beat.
For
my
veins
like
lightning-‐struck
branches,
For
my
spine
like
a
redwood
tree,
For
when
I
am
most
bare.
For
the
scars
on
my
elbows
From
falling
off
the
jungle
gym.
For
the
discoloration
on
my
kneecaps
From
tripping
up
stairs.
For
my
trembling
ankles…
For
the
zigzags
on
my
belly
From
three
operations.
For
the
abscess
in
my
uterus
The
doctor
forgot
when
stitching
Me
up.
For
my
appendix
that
burst
At
the
Harry
Potter
midnight
premier.
For
my
hourglass
figure
Running
out
of
time,
For
never
having
enough
Or
always
having
too
much.
For
never
quite
fitting
no
matter
How
much
I
squeeze
and
pull
And
don’t
breathe.
For
wanting
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