I Am Not My Body
Staring at my naked reflection in the mirror,
I run my hands over
every bump,
every bulge,
every curve.
“I am not her,”
I tell myself as I survey the damage.
Unruly, curly hair
with tendrils framing
a round face,
olive skin,
and deep, chocolate-brown
almond eyes,
the faint traces
of my Sansei pride.
I suck in my stomach,
my mind racked with “if onlys,”
noting just how flat it isn’t.
I’ve been sucker-punched so many times,
I’ve lost count.
But frankly, I wouldn’t change it for the world,
because if you never make mistakes,
you cease to make much of anything.
I turn to the side,
placing my hands firmly
on my wide-set hips.
They’re a pain in the ass,
but maybe someday
I’ll be thankful,
as I bring a new life into the world.
I turn to look at my back,
which is broader than I’d like it to be,
but it is with that very backbone
I learned to be steadfast and strong.
I bring my hands to my face.
They’re small, but perhaps
the best tools God gave me,
for it is with them I speak
so much more than I can articulate
whenever I sit in front of my piano.
It is with them I pack every ounce of my love
into culinary creations and delectable desserts.
I zero-in on the scars strewn across my body,
evidence of battles fought,
battles won.
These are my ribbons.
My legs are short
and my thighs touch,
but it is with them
I’ve stood in the face of adversity.
My knees are scuffed,
but it’s only proof
that I found the courage to stand,
even with the possibility
I may once again fall.
I turn my feet out,
examining them
and thinking what a pain it is
to find shoes since my accident.
Then I realize that it is with them
that I learned to walk not once as a child,
but twice at the age of 18.
I glance in the mirror again,
hoping to see a slimmer me,
for I’m a woman who is unfamiliar with
“straight sizes” at the department store.
Never have I gone to a rack of jeans
and pulled out a size 6,
nor have I felt the pleasure of being
frustrated that I couldn’t find a size small.
I’m so much more than meets the eye
and once more I will say, “I am not my body.”
But, then again,
maybe I am.
Christina Ann Nelson
Staring at my naked reflection in the mirror,
I run my hands over
every bump,
every bulge,
every curve.
“I am not her,”
I tell myself as I survey the damage.
Unruly, curly hair
with tendrils framing
a round face,
olive skin,
and deep, chocolate-brown
almond eyes,
the faint traces
of my Sansei pride.
I suck in my stomach,
my mind racked with “if onlys,”
noting just how flat it isn’t.
I’ve been sucker-punched so many times,
I’ve lost count.
But frankly, I wouldn’t change it for the world,
because if you never make mistakes,
you cease to make much of anything.
I turn to the side,
placing my hands firmly
on my wide-set hips.
They’re a pain in the ass,
but maybe someday
I’ll be thankful,
as I bring a new life into the world.
I turn to look at my back,
which is broader than I’d like it to be,
but it is with that very backbone
I learned to be steadfast and strong.
I bring my hands to my face.
They’re small, but perhaps
the best tools God gave me,
for it is with them I speak
so much more than I can articulate
whenever I sit in front of my piano.
It is with them I pack every ounce of my love
into culinary creations and delectable desserts.
I zero-in on the scars strewn across my body,
evidence of battles fought,
battles won.
These are my ribbons.
My legs are short
and my thighs touch,
but it is with them
I’ve stood in the face of adversity.
My knees are scuffed,
but it’s only proof
that I found the courage to stand,
even with the possibility
I may once again fall.
I turn my feet out,
examining them
and thinking what a pain it is
to find shoes since my accident.
Then I realize that it is with them
that I learned to walk not once as a child,
but twice at the age of 18.
I glance in the mirror again,
hoping to see a slimmer me,
for I’m a woman who is unfamiliar with
“straight sizes” at the department store.
Never have I gone to a rack of jeans
and pulled out a size 6,
nor have I felt the pleasure of being
frustrated that I couldn’t find a size small.
I’m so much more than meets the eye
and once more I will say, “I am not my body.”
But, then again,
maybe I am.
Christina Ann Nelson
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