This body is shaped by the children it bore. By the struggle of keeping them alive and alive and alive. This body is a wound. A carving. A bloodletting. A scar since womb-darkened eyes first focused on its breasts. A talisman. This body stretches and twists around the world’s gaze. Rejecting judgement from every quarter, it thrives. This body is shaped by gravity and loss of intimacy. Wisdom blurs the outline.
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