Flux Eterna

“That body is female!”, they tell me. At the turn of the moon It purges itself of its sins, Washing away what lives could have been, Punished for failing biological duties. “That body is female!”, they tell me. Forever marked with the scarlet letter, The big, bold, burning red “F” Branded on the legal document Of my consciousness. “That body is female!”, they tell me. Its identity is not recognised by law; A renegade, a libertine, toeing the Tightrope lines between the accepted And the unfathomable. “That body is female!”, they tell me. Unconventionally painted in black, With cellulite scars and deep tiger stripes Permeating every inch of The skin’s breathing surface. “That body is female!”, they tell me. Not delicate, not loving, not pocket-sized, Not built for the purpose of carrying The weighty expectations of others, Thrust upon it unwillingly. “That body is female!”, they tell me. It's not shameful to own these Himalayan curves, Cupids bow lips, blue eyes full of secrets; Except, of course, when these parts Are fetishised, demonised, criticised. “That body is female!”, they tell me. The timbre of its voice Gives way to conjecture, Its name forms the image of a doll-child; Porcelain, with golden curls cascading. "That body is female!", they tell me. Rebelling against it is a cardinal sin In the religion of female empowerment. Denying its femininity, the body Is a traitor to the cause. "That body is female!", they screech. The brain does not work that way; It binds its breasts pridefully, Shears away trestles damaged by bleach, and, In defiance, paints on a brave face.