Your body, to me, told of your strength as a woman, a testament to your achievements and all you gave up 

 
Your scrubs nipped and draped over your form, highlighting every soft curve and hard muscle
 
Your broad, brown wrist, striped white, from the watch you put on and never took off to count the heartbeats of those in your charge
 
Your fat and swollen feet soaked in a tub of warm water after a weekend of doubles of running in the cardiac unit hallways
 
Your back muscles turned to stones from lifting, tugging, and pulling, which I with my child fists pulverized into gravel 

Your belly bloated, caused by a need for sugar and caffeine to help you keep the sick alive during your eleven to seven
 
My body, to you, was a living document inscribed with my failures, betraying the truth of my gender’s weaknesses
 
My curves stretched my camo uniform over my hips and ass, drawing the eye and mind of my male comrades, causing them to view me only as prey 
 
My bony, white wrists refusing not to complain, cracked, creaked, and cried  as my body levitated above the ground in the pushup position 
 
My foot with its jagged scars, indicative of how I unraveled, then failed to knit myself back into the girl I once was
 
My back, a mosaic of rips, tears, and bulging pieces the result of carrying things too heavy by one too young, dumb, and female
 
My blistered brain and weak mind, unable to forget the burnt memories of waiting for death as midnight turned into morning