BODY IMAGE Poem: Flesh Prison, by Abby Pullan

In the silver tribunal of morning light, I stretch the putty of my discontent, pulling at the stubborn cartography of skin that maps only territories of wanting.

Fingers pluck at rebellious adipose, kneading the dough of dissatisfaction into familiar sculptures of revulsion.

Each pinch a question mark carved in flesh, the dermis refuses transformation, this obstinate envelope of bone, stuffing itself with shadows and angles that never align with the phantom within.

Yanking at the fabric of my periphery, tugging the seams of this ill fitted suit, while the mirror’s eye burns holes through the paper-thin armour of acceptance.

Forever stretching, pulling, stuffing, plucking at the clay that will not yield, Will not become the vessel I promised to house this exile of wanting.