There are hands that do not belong to me and I miss them
more than I’m supposed to,
like my own aren’t enough,
like I don’t breathe okay enough
on my own.
See, the thing is, I do.
Doctor said my lungs sound athletic
and I laugh,
because I ran into a wall on the way
to see her,
but sure, I don’t smoke
and I run on the treadmill a couple times a week.
There are parts of my body that work
exactly how they should
and parts I still tug at
when I can’t sleep.
I ran 7 miles yesterday,
I’m screaming it
to my stomach in the shower
and Mom says positive affirmations
so instead I look down and say,
“Be beautiful like you once were.”
I don’t think that’s what she meant.
I’m saying there are bad things
in my mind and I still care too much
about how far my ribcage sticks out.
I’m saying a pair of hands used to press
together at the narrowing of my waist
and now it’s just me,
so I don’t do it.
Wouldn’t want comparisons.
There are hands that do not belong to me
and I have nightmares that they wouldn’t
recognize the new landscape,
this body I so often call a cathedral,
but never even worship privately.
His hands, his hands,
what if they only loved