Worn, calloused heels pace the trampled carpet.
Warm, sweaty hands pick scabs on one another.
The skinny arms are scabbed and freckly;
no stereotypical wrist slices, friends.
Short, chewed nails attached to uncharacteristically chubby fingers.
Dark brown hair falls in a curtain over my face.
I see my nose, and I know there are freckles peppered there,
marks of a veteran of the sun.
My stomach aches, maybe from excitement
and my eyes are dry and itchy.
This body is a box and I put it through pain.
I damage it, pick at natural scabs so they scar.
I feed it crap and adorn it with crap.
It's a good expression of the heart inside,
every seasoning I throw on it
in preparation for someone to gobble up a small chunk of it
like it's some kind of seasoned chicken.