if your favorite of the things about me is the way i look, then you have no favorite. my appearance is nothing about me,

my shell is a thing about you, about the city, about the climate.

this skin i did not lay over my flesh, i feel no pride nor shame in your perception of its softness

these legs have been screwed into my hips my the nimble expenditures of divinity, i have not shaped my thighs nor sculpted my calves

i am no more responsible for your viewing of this body than i am of foreign hands dipped into foreign water

i am separate from your idea of me
and that is fine.

reality is what it is decided to be
and that is fine. 

you have chosen me as the object of your desire

i have chosen to keep walking