I want to be a body. I've never been 
a body before. I've been a mind, 
                                                           an integrity, 
a value. 

Not a body. Not something 
so base. And yet—

I am endlessly apologetic of the space I take up 
in the world. On high alert, 
                                             folding myself small 
so as not to bother anyone orbiting near. 

Any inadvertent contact 
a corrective shock. 

I don’t think men feel this way, 
do they? 
                                Hyper-aware, forever on edge 
in their own skin. 

Tell me they don’t. Make me 
jealous. 

They are just bodies to me now. Nothing 
more. I can't tell you names 
                                                                    or jobs 
or favorite brands of bourbon. 

But I can tell you how four limbs are 
compact, blocky like an action figure. 

Or how a stomach 
distends over me—
                                                      a trim globe that 
makes me go concave. 

I’d love to play the man, 
let all of me fill up the world.

About the Author:

Brenna McPeek is a writer and editor based in New York City. She received her MFA in Fiction from Columbia University and her work has appeared in Grain, Necessary Fiction, KGB Bar Lit, and other publications.

Image by Deepak Palli/ Unsplash