Inside Out

Inside Out

There is a part of me that believes 

that because my body is untameable

it is also shameful.

A part that believes the lies,

that looks with envy in the eyes,

betraying the soft and mountainous 

isness of me.

I am not an itty bitty thing.

I am not strung taut and lean.

I am a big Mumma

making the world.

Like a planet my surface has survived 

meteoric barrage.

I am battle scarred.

There are holes in my soul so big

it takes a harvest to fill them.

Like the ocean’s surface my flesh

ripples with a thousand stories.

I cannot be shrunk to size.

My body flows out like a feast

or a font

or a furnace

of love and holding,

of fear and withholding. 

So far past pretty

I have become an ancient creature

of crevice and moss,

blemish and scar,

my flesh chooses it’s abundance uncontained.

My son says 

you are the most comfortable place, Mumma.

And I know there is more to give than a sleek facade.

My mountains and valleys give life,

they are not wrong.

Because of this dissonance inside,

it’s scorn and scathing,

I am less alive.

I avoid mirror and reflection,

my mind skims quickly 

the quagmires of shame 

that ask me to become less of me

and more pleasing 

to the impossible strangers

who fill my eyes each day,

each glance taking me further away 

from what I am.

From the rugged terrain, 

the untameable universe, 

the myriad wildnesses

of my very own body.

Be still, gaze of my father,

voice of the world 

that says I am wrong and less and flawed 

to be the very shape of me,

the very tone and texture

of me.

There can be a nuanced comfort 

that defies appearance.

A heart inside that pulses 

with a limitless love,

like an ancient tide.

It is enough to be here,

deep feeling of body

spirit made flesh,

a miracle.

Be still, hungry ghost.

I am a big Mumma

making the world,

I am not less,

I am just more. 

This life is a mission 

of mammoth proportions

and I cannot house a traitor in my skin.

With Ariadne’s thread I turn inside 

to hunt the deserted paths,

and track the source of pain,

the harrowing beast of my shame,

her monstrous hatred

of my wild.

My heart was born to love her home

it knows what must be done.

My heart has done this a thousand times,

the redemptive wooing of the broken,

the vast and patient succour 

of a Mumma’s love, 

making the world 

safe,

from the inside out.

Image and text Copyright Lucy Pierce 2021