my body is not my body


when i’m held mouth wide open, blood oozing, dreading your extraction of part of my body. i’m only six. i’m not asleep. i never forgot.

i’m eighteen. adult, or so they say. part of my body breaks so more space is filled with you & all you carry. it hurts. in retrospect, it always hurt. it always will.

year forward, i’m in a cold whitewashed room waiting. you probe & prod part of my body like i’m some dead meat. you show me off to others for kicks. it’s hard to open, to relax. this reflex never passes.

i’m at the age of my own responsibilities, body & otherwise. i’ve learned all there is about my body parts, my body whole. i know what to do. i can’t–you govern my body.

you tell me it’s all in my part of body & there’s nothing you can do. but here, take these pills. they’ll control some parts, for now, as they kill the whole.








Nadia Gerassimenko is assistant editor at Luna Luna Magazine and proofreader at Red Raven by day, a moonchild and poet by night. Moonchild Dreams is her first chapbook. You can visit her at or tweet her at @tepidautumn


featured photography by badpoem