What the Body Says when She Refuses

Next time, when I design the map
It’s going to go a little something like this:

Alright, listen to me.
Feel what I am saying to you,
One who turns the blind eye to the fact
That I control just about everything
Around here,

The forgiveness must stop.
No more apology take back talk throughs –
They don’t do anything to protect
What is left in this green, yet cracked home
You and I built together.

Map of the Body –
*You get to choose:

Path number one:

No, I don’t want salad almond faux chocolate paste nutrition landfill. No, I will not have you on top this time. No, you do not get a say in this transmission. No, it is not just about the lime. No, taste my face once and realize it does only as it pleases. It is not concerned with you or any of your accouterments, regardless of how big they are. No, I am not impressed by the status of your death brain noodle education. No, it really is just about your green glass eye, shitass. I expected it to feel like the place between water and sand. It did not. And you knew this all along. No, I did not lose the forty and some odd moments that made me this slenderized, tenderized version who really could rotate your tired face and wash her hands of it.

Path number two:

Yes, I require more than a moment to intensify and do you justice. Yes, I really did work the body to peak position without panties. Yes, this is what I look like – all over, the place you keep saying is somewhere between imperfect and monsoon white light disaster. (I will have to look that up; I don’t think you are right about that one.) Yes, my thigh can meld you into the metal you were made of and then pour you out through the eyeglass of those nine months you said it would be okay and then took it back. You are an Indian giver and yes, I know that is not politically correct. Yes, I told her she had to wait a bit longer for my derailment. From my own mess, I came up green and smiling. Where were you? Someplace I imagine – the transition that exists between water and the steam of this mess.

Path number three:

I can only be one composition in this spectacle. Night blankets the discord as I – in my own mistake trivial pursuit without chocolate money – watch burning people burn on like they are only dipping spoons into bread. I do not understand this smoldering. They always ask – what are you made of? I answer just this, because I have not found my way in the universe: I am blood orange and concrete with a sprig shooting up – always – someplace searching for what is next on the earth. Did I mention to you that one time that my real eyes are green?