Everyday I’m taut → I hold the internet to my face and get my mind made up. Everyday I’m taught → beauty is in the simplicity-clean lines–smooth skin–the hollows–the bones– the not-even what I find beautiful. But they are entirely separate needs → the finding and being found to be. My body is found knotted → as an old tree trunk → it’s terrain rough → I’m fat now → and my new flesh is a foreign landscape → it’s hard for me to canvas and kindness comes like pulling teeth. I want a heart that’s not been tuned and strung by shame itself → I resist all the time gather pride against those who judge → if flab makes you uncomfortable → you need my nudes more than anyone. But changing minds is a burden I’m still just burning → to be generic → my body is nothing → if not complicated but here I am → watching you type a message to me → three dots blinking → hoping you like complicated things.
Sophia Holme (she/her) is a queer poet and writer made in Canada but now based in Oxford, England. She drinks a lot of coffee, reads bits of various novels and works in a bookshop. Say hi on Twitter @holmesophia.
A Song for Sophia