Scar Tissue

In the future,
we all look alike –
chiselled from the same block of marble.
High cheek bones, plumped lips,
bodies honed to perfection;
statues in motion.

Fingers, toes –
graceful extensions of curated beings.
We speak in silks,
our couture fluent
in elegance and class.

Not me….

I prefer the old ways –
not cut from marble,
but worn like river stone.

A belly full of years,
fat folds like tired punctuation.
A womb carved seven times,
by life and its demands.

I wake.

Not the future,
But now –
drugged and splayed
on a cold metal table.

Coming to,
I say it again:
Not me.