Your body's story slips from behind the words you want me to see. The folds of skin pulled tight, angled in the hand held mirror camera lens, transparent as the plastic screen saver you project. Your body's story is a nest of hornets burrowed in the hollow tree behind the pond. Your art betrays you, like school children who cant keep a secret, each crimped curl, each curve of mascara, every striped line that accentuates the center of your figure, All are wailing birds of night, crying for companionship in the dark. Your body's story is a scavenger that rides the high cross winds, carrion eater soaring like an eagle. I look for your hidden blemishes, shaming jewels whose crown can never be undone, the real treasures that reveal you, the imperfect nose ridge, the wilting petals of your cleavage, gravity's touch not so obvious when you pose with your arms above your head. Your body's story is the trampled ground in early spring, snow thawed earth, crevices, and sediment sliding into creeks and ponds. The story of your body is the truth of your beauty, yet someone taught you not to lead with it. To hide it until you can trust them not to hurt you with it. As if anyone could hurt you more than you.