She tells me about the thick almost
Impermeable skin that blankets me,
About how my thighs refuse to stop kissing
Long after the sunsets have broken up,
About the tangents of my collarbone
That are drowning beneath an ocean
Of, what she calls, Potential Regrets,
About the Extra Smalls that don’t fit me,
About my scraped black knees that, she
Says, are not meant for a girl like me,
About my untrimmed finger nails that
Will render me helpless every time
I try to claw at the world.
All I want to tell her is that,
I don’t want to claw at the world, I want to love it.
That my knees are charcoal paintings, and I am a human canvas.
That the Extra Smalls won’t fit me, for I am a much bigger person
Indeed. That the tangents of my collarbone are exploring the depths,
Not drowning. That my thighs are only appreciative of each other,
And that she should be too. And my impermeable skin is just home to a
Big heart, and the people it has been sheltering along the way.