I’ve been asked to treat my body
Like a temple, again and again, like
A sacred sanctum that needs to
Be saved from sacrilege in any way
And form, and like an idol on a lonely
Pedestal, held high above any harm
Or pain, but all I know is that my body
Is just that, a body that is mine, and
It’s mine to tattoo with words I may
Or may not regret, and it’s mine to give
To those who love, and if I wish, those
Who simply lust instead, and it’s mine
To keep, and to tarnish, and to repair
And it’s mine to scar, and heal, and
Eventually count the delicate, pale lines
And marks, and stretches on, because
Temples are open to those who wish
To come and go as they please, and they’re
Open to those who trample delicate
Flowers as a sign of faith and peace, and
It’s meant as a symbol of enforced
Chastity, and my body is none of that,
It is the simplest expression of me.


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