this body was a person once
with uninterrupted skin
and lungs ballooning with ambition
it even knew its own name
this body isn’t much for purity culture
but perhaps it was the hands that touched it
that took away the self, the animation
or perhaps it was the slow decay of mourning
or the woodgrain patterns of trauma
all building upon each other
to make this body a tree
but this body was a person once
this body was a person once
my body was a person once
Oh, reading this poem is sad. I like how you chose to make the redactions visible. That ending is evocative–especially “my body once”
It definitely felt like there was more you wanted to say in the first version of this one, but I think you did a really interesting job of trying to get the rest of those feelings across in this verison. It was an experience to read this one and I’m gald I had that experience.