214: Stolen

You do not know my body,

the gait of my walk, the lines around my eyes,

the curve of my shoulders, the dip behind my knees.

You do not know the scar under my lip or the

freckles on my arms, the places that hold tension

or the places that dance.

You have never felt my pulse.

Never looked me in the eye,

watched my ribs fill with air,

watched my eyes fill with tears.

You don’t know the curve of my hips

that could one day hold a child.

You haven’t the slightest idea

if my womb would allow it.

No, you do not know my body.

I am the expert here. You are a guest,

only when welcomed.

Did you forget?

You have to wipe your feet at the door.

Knock before you enter. Ask before you take,

otherwise, it’s stealing.

Written by Sarah A. Speed // Writing the Good

Written in response to Roe V. Wade being overturned.