My small stomach is rounded, a little bloated
I’m accompanied by my C-section scar,
by stretch-marks sitting proudly across the left side.
I feel like a tiger and I like it.
My tattoos are noticed and appreciated
I dream about what illustrations might come next,
where they might live,
where the ink will stay until I am ash.
My feet have been ignored –
I rub them so that they feel a little love.
In-grown hairs inhabit where I shave.
That solo mystery dark hair stands tall below my belly button.
My arms are pink and bumpy.
My fingernails are uneven, broken or bitten,
hands are dry,
stay-at-home motherhood is taking its toll.
I think about how much energy I used to spend
making myself “sexy enough”
for whomever I was dating –
They weren’t worth the time.
We give too much and get
so little in return.
I used to aim for porn-star perfection
instead of my IRL-beauty.
Now my baths aren’t for getting
“sexy enough” for somebody else,
they are for me.
For peace and rest and time with myself.
Survival is gruelling,
mental illnesses are tiring,
the everyday is exhausting.
Time for a bath.