Self Image

The curves like burgeoning mountains struggling to grasp new heights,
like a saddle swung sideways,
pouches fighting in awkward lumps against fabric meant
to lay smooth and flat.
Like even savannahs interrupted by
the clamoring of fleshy hills
that ruin the view from baobab to horizon
with round, bulbous objects
that shatter the sharpness of a geometric plane.
There is nothing beautiful about mountains.

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