Cross My Heart and Hope to Write

INCLUDING ORIGINAL POETRY, SHORT STORIES, ESSAYS, AND NOVELLAS, ALONGSIDE ARTWORK AND PHOTOGRAPHY
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Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Stretch Marks

I know that the majority of my posts as of late have been concerned with poetry. I am also well aware that the description of this webpage contains reference to a plethora of addition mediums of expression that (aside from photography) appear to have been ruthlessly neglected. Fear not, for I shall be bringing you fresh samples of my other preoccupations once I have found the time to do so! I have stuck diligently to poetry simply because I have far too many specimens at my disposal.

Alas, we have here a section from yet another series I am working on. You have already seen me make reference to "The Heart Series", which is composed exclusively of photographs. By contrast, this is a poetic series, consisting of poems of a similar theme that are meant to compliment each other. (I have another poem series in the works, but that's for another post).

This series is made up of poems that glorify the female body. More specifically, they focus on parts of the body that women often frown upon and features that society has enforced as negative to poses. These include things like wrinkles, cellulite, fat, stretch marks, and so on. The poems are meant to convey the message that a woman's body is beautiful, especially those wonderful pieces that we obsess over and try to erase. The poems are very much about women's empowerment, and should fill the female reader with a sense of confidence, sexuality, and individualism. Without further delay, I present the first in the series:


Stretch Marks

Come,
Ride my rivers,
Sail across these muddled maelstroms;  
Get swept away by the currents that mark my 
Stomach,
Thigh, and  
Breast.
I am an expanding star,
A red giant bursting with fervency,
My seams stretched from welling ego and
Hubris drawn in zebra stripes.
These trails are uncharted,
So won’t you map them extensively?
Trace them with your fingertips,
Eager to but scratch the surface.
I have outgrown this skin,
This epidermis hinders,
The butterfly within imprisoned,
Its wings slicing scars toward reality.
         

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