I am not a metaphor. neither am I these typed words. a telephoned voice, or a photograph. I am a woman. my heart has no charcoal markings, no burning internal fires, or broken glass scarring it. cannot fly, or break. it is merely made of muscle measuring about the size of my left hand closed into a fist. it beats for no man, but to pass blood. my lungs have never breathed saltwater, only air, almost always when necessary air - for my voice air - for my blood. blood that has no gracious qualities, only a fluid, essentially water, some salt, too much sugar sometimes and occasionally, it bleeds outside my skin. skin that bears actual scars, a frequent and great variety of bruises, skin that sags where I don’t want it to, is wrinkled more than I would like. skin - simply physical protection for my body. I hang bracelets on it, and for vanity rub makeup on it, but this cannot change that it is plain skin. if you could look into my eyes there is no broken glass twinkling, no universes to transverse, only hazel, that can appear tired. my eyes - cry saline tears more than I expected. my hands and feet are not beautiful, neither are they ugly. they are useful. functional for for cleaning, cooking walking, maybe dancing. raising children, feeding pets. my hands write, paint and with my eyes take many photos. no timber exists in my hair, no scent of jasmine or honey. it is dead, and usually unruly in the wind and rain. I paint it colours, again for vanity my children play with it while I tell them stories. I am only made of blood and bone, valuable for walking through this world the best that I am able. I am not these typed words. neither am I great metaphors. I only am a woman.
even so that is enough.