I am eight years old, sitting on the toilet, eyes squeezed just, pee dripping out–afraid. Afraid that if I pee too fast, my vagina will burn from your fingers scrapping it raw. I am eight years old and I am a body to you already, no mind, no soul, no nothing, just a body to use whenever you feel like it. Even after a decade of processing this, you, us, my part, was it me? I always came when you called, some part of me wanted it, surely, even after a decade, I am
still
just body
to You.
I am sixteen years old, feeling out of control, rebellious, fighting for my place–afraid. Afraid that I am a bitch, always angry, unsure, yet fighting to be more, so you can see me, be proud of me, validate me for me. I am sixteen years old and all I am to you is a selfish bitch. With each argument we have, easily you call me bitch and I sink on the inside, fighting, yet shriveling. Even after a decade of processing this, you, us, my part, was it me? Even after a decade, I am
still
just bitch
to You.
I am thirty-five years old, back on a toilet silently crying because I am not pregnant again. My husband sleeps a few feet outside the door and I don’t want to wake him, so I cry silently, blaming my body. Still just body.
I am thirty-seven years old, a thin tire like line of fat has formed on my lower abdomen, I see it every day, hating how it hangs over my underwear line creating a sharp crease when I lift the fat. I stare at it regularly, blaming this body of mine for being too this or too that. When my grandfather and cousin say, you got fat or you got big, I retort back a strong-willed response or a joke and shrivel on the inside. Am I fat, I did get big. I
am
just body
to you and even me at times
because
how am I supposed to shield myself from the constant penetration of images and bodies that don’t look like mine, that are not mine?
I am thirty-eight, almost thirty-nine, will be forty in one year and my grandmother, who called me fat at fifteen when I weighed ninety pounds, says “she got big” in Marathi to my grandfather. I shrivel, still, I am just body to you and you and you and you and you.
It’s no wonder you and you and you can sit around tables, ones I am not invited to and pass laws about me. I am just body after all. Not mind. Not soul.
