I Miss My Body
I love the feel of my own skin. Should I be ashamed? Everyday I feel pressed upon by religious radicals, conservatives, and oppressive adults, when--in reality--I prefer to press upon myself, to touch my body with my fingertips.
For example, just out of the shower, I love the feel of my newly-shaven legs. Every Saturday and Sunday morning (the days when I have plenty of time to relax and unwind) I dab at my calves with a black towel, rub moisturizer into my legs, then lay out on my bed and allow the tip of the top of my fingers to slowly slip-slide over my hips.
It's comforting. It's relaxing. Tingling spiderwebs shoot across my torso, causing my hair to buzz with electricity and my toes to curl. This is what being alive is all about.
I'm tired of feeling like I have to hide my body from the world. The moment I was born, the doctors wrapped my little lump of flesh with thick, warm cloth. From that day on, I was taught to dress myself with bulging sweaters and apathetic fear and humility.
Why should I care if you want to look my way? Why must I make every effort to ensure that you--whoever you are out there--never gets a chance to touch the same curves that I see in the mirror when I step out of the shower in the early morning?
Maybe I want to touch you.
Sure, I have silk underwear and frilly red bras in my top drawer: secret gifts from myself to myself; but, I have more than that in my closet: anxiety, nervous jitters, and an irrational fear of abuse. So, when I'm alone, I touch my body to remind myself that I miss it.
For example, just out of the shower, I love the feel of my newly-shaven legs. Every Saturday and Sunday morning (the days when I have plenty of time to relax and unwind) I dab at my calves with a black towel, rub moisturizer into my legs, then lay out on my bed and allow the tip of the top of my fingers to slowly slip-slide over my hips.
It's comforting. It's relaxing. Tingling spiderwebs shoot across my torso, causing my hair to buzz with electricity and my toes to curl. This is what being alive is all about.
I'm tired of feeling like I have to hide my body from the world. The moment I was born, the doctors wrapped my little lump of flesh with thick, warm cloth. From that day on, I was taught to dress myself with bulging sweaters and apathetic fear and humility.
Why should I care if you want to look my way? Why must I make every effort to ensure that you--whoever you are out there--never gets a chance to touch the same curves that I see in the mirror when I step out of the shower in the early morning?
Maybe I want to touch you.
Sure, I have silk underwear and frilly red bras in my top drawer: secret gifts from myself to myself; but, I have more than that in my closet: anxiety, nervous jitters, and an irrational fear of abuse. So, when I'm alone, I touch my body to remind myself that I miss it.
