BODY IMAGE Poem: Wear, by Jacqueline Barr

Are the jagged red grooves etched
across my skin, there because I
rake my fingernails along my
abdomen while I lie in bed at night,
trying to claw my way out of the body
I inherited?

Were these arms passed down to me
through generations of women who
came before me, starving and contorting
themselves to avoid judgmental glares
which bore into their bones until their
marrow was gifted to me?

Was I pressed, bleeding into a world,
from a body like mine, so I could
tear out my hair and dig at my pores
until my tissue collects to form a
crescent moon I’ll never be rid of?

When did I begin to hate my sisters,
since hating myself is nearly the same;
if she shares my body, my flaws,
must I loathe her with the same vigor?

Where can we flee to a place where
our flesh will be safe from those who
wish to harm or humiliate, where
the masses will love our brokenness?

Who can be trusted to claim us, and in
hatred does not mention the elephant in this
room whose name sounds like mine?

Will I strive daily until I am small enough
to fit into the silhouette made just for me?

Why do I resolve to disappear?