I, I (a poem about reclaiming my body and my autonomy)
I am not a continued silence
that remains trapped within a clasped hand-held coin purse,
singing through my whistling throat as if drowning.
I am not a ringing noise
screeching over the night, like a siren,
an unbolted screw yearning for deliverance, as if your hand alone
can hold me in place.
I am not a shivering palm
groping at the world, searching aimlessly for the socket in which to shove my itching fingers into.
I am not here to take or be taken as if a body only has one use then thrown, forgotten,
like a naked, abused doll.
I do not need my hair cut or my arms stretched
or my chest engorged.