One that loved herself. Loved her cellulite
calves and wide-banner arms,
waving every time she grappled toward doughy delights.
One that conquered her abuser. Teardrops of war
paint, drawn down
tender cheeks.
What if the wounds he carved into her quivering,
pre-pubescent chest
triggered
self-inquisition, rather than triggering
her self-loathing?
