Body of Furniture
My body, female bodies, all bodies, bear the stories and memories and pleasures and aches and pains of generations. There are times when my body feels less human, more object. It is furniture, serviceable and decorative. Supporting the weight of others, cushioning their bones, embellishing the room.
My body, an invitation. A one-night stand for easy consumption, a sorry attempt to fulfill some misplaced longing to be needed. Needed in the way that at the end of a long day, one aches for the sunken seat molded to their form as a result of consistent devotion.
My body, a mirror. A reflection of others’ hunger (and my own aversion) for it. A frame for people to see themselves through.
My body, a footrest. Contorted into a surface that supports the dirtiest parts of others, fixed to be walked all over.
My body, a cage. Not quite meant to protect what’s inside, but rather a structure to trap itself in. I pass the time picking away at my skin and pressing on bruises, dissecting what it is I’m made up of.
My body, a collection of heirloom pieces of womanhood rather than something of my own. Existing in a female body is to exist as an object of use and desire. Womanhood is just furniture on display.