These folds in my back, these dips in my waist and the vibrations in my plumper hills are not a sin. They were crafted by forces that Rule us, that tether us to the very ground.
Why do we place traps before our feet, unmanicured? One wrong step: you must change, loose the workings that warm.
I refuse to lie still in a cage, to step knowingly into the snare. I can make out glints of steel under leaves of magazines, as long exposure to darkness uncovers stars.
I am wiser than the “teatox,” my skin curdles at the thought of being wrapped, bound against expansion.
This is how I take up my space, leaping over the bait, the clashing of metal the soundtrack to my evolution.