Jharna Choudhury
Body-Things

I am standing on the graveyard of your frenzy

for OO sizes.

I offer in flowers my  _ _ & oo & _o breasts;

less, in kilograms, for your butcher heart.


You have killed me with your love

for milk-white textures, wider hips, popped lips,

mountains and fountains higher in climb;

adding to your adventure, my quiet asphyxiation.

When you turn to the other side of the bed;

stroking, staring at your phone,

my dark skin, petite hips, tiny lips

and other ordinary woman flesh screams

at the prosthetic women you so love as god’s perfect made.

I cry when you call me small

and test me as an experiment for a bigger future;

spitting at the minuscule earth cracking through me,

dreaming of some plastic body, dreaming of some infection.