I jump at the first possibility to
sleep with a man who seems fine
with the proliferous scar across my belly
cutting me in half
making me worry I could spill out of myself
through it.
I could have died for that broad pale line,
my signature proving that
at sixteen, I agreed to having four pairs of hands
turn my decaying insides out.
he says it looks like it’s just
a roll of fat, I shouldn’t
worry
and I wish I could let him know about
my relationship with love handles,
with bra sizes and shorts and
my aunt looking at me through the mirror.
I don’t; I unpack my breasts
for distraction.
those look great, he says,
the first compliment since surgery,
so I dive into the duvet
trying to remember something,
anything
from sex education.
his hand on my neck makes it
easy
and I’m almost happy to hide my front,
to get on my knees
as if I was always meant to be folded like that,
as if that was my most natural position.
thank you,
he says afterwards, and I want to cry
with relief.
I float home in the morning,
grateful for having found
my way around his sweaty limbs,
around our toes grabbing the sheets and the
stuffiness
of his bedroom. this is it, I tell myself
on the bus:
this is as good as it gets in romance
when your body comes with
a weld seam.


Laura Motavasseli was born in Vienna and is stubbornly holding on to the idea of writing a book one day. Meanwhile, she spends her days studying something completely different, frowning at people on the evening train and petting the neighbour’s cat. Twitter: @venetiana_

Image: DSC_0204 by mollybee (Creative Commons)

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