Declarative. Body. 

talischa j.

My stomach oozes 
over the band 
of anything 
that isn’t high-waisted. 

My boobs hang out 
with my belly button, 
braless and loud, overstaying 
their welcome on the sweatiest days. 

Back fat seeps 
through the thin fabric 
of my crop tops, 
a dark honey. 

Tender thigh meat 
dry-rubbing holes 
into cheap denim 
and fleece lined leggings. 

Feet wider 
than they were 
a decade ago, 
joints crackle under thick weight. 

I have no bad blood 
with my body. 
Anymore. 
My body is mine. 

Even when my nipples itch. 
Mine. 
Through the menorrhagia. 
Mine. 
Every time I force my shoulders to relax. 
When my footsteps make the floorboards shake.
As I undo the button of my pants to free it after eating

too much. This is my body. Mine.