I Am a Statue

It would be a beautiful world if we could cut off the parts of us that we don’t like.

Take a knife to my breasts; whittle them down a size or two.

Smooth out the lumps and edges—

Sandpaper would do the trick nicely.

A small curved saw could shave off the extra bulk around my middle. 

A chip and a ding here and there would be fixed easily enough.

I could carve my form into the shape of my dreams.

Smooth and soft and tight at the seams.

                                                      

Nothing is too great a problem that my tools couldn’t fix it.

If I take too much off here

I will just take more off there.

Although there really isn’t such a thing as taking off too much.

I’m nothing more than

Curves and a

Waist and

Long pretty hair and

Soft dark eyes and

Olive skin and

Breasts and

Perfect teeth and

Round cheeks and

Lumps and

Bumps and

Bruises galore.

This shell I reside in is not simply a house. It is me. Not simply a house. My entirety.

It’ll be worth it in the end.

Machiavelli thinks so.

So why not take off more?

Chop a little here and then chop a little there.

I can feel a difference, and so can he, and so can their eyes.

These eyes that crawl up and down my skin, measuring tapes in hand, notes taken while frowns obscure their pleasant features.

I can handle scrutiny, if I take just a bit more off.

But now, I’ve reached an impasse.

Cut too deep, the bleeders will be exposed.

And then I’m even more gone than ever before.

The choice is hard, but so is the saw.

Still as an oak statue—I’m finally pretty.