i would be a pre-historic map drawn with sticks and crushed berries on the hide of an extinct mammal, my locations of interest a surreal landscape; my head the ocean, my kneecaps a forbidden mountain range never dared to be explored by a careless wanderer. i’d have a vast array of flora because you know a bitch loves a good metaphor. did you know that the victorians spoke in flowers? a columbine for my foolishness, forget-me-nots for those who have already forgotten me. a lotus down my spine emerging from darkness, the roots as long demon fingers from the fists i crawled out of, barely, just barely. i would have a noose made out of cat hair. a great silver sword encrusted with sapphires on my ribs.
my mother would probably say, you know, you’ve always been too nice for your own good, look at you now, with no place left for yourself. and i would show her the bare soles of my feet that keep me standing and the palms of my hands free and strong. i would tell her that i am comprised of the aches that shaped me and i still have room for more. the nape of my neck, my inner thigh. i saved the best for last.