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.