A Portrait of my Body as [Redacted]

Purple pythons slither down my grassy hips- emerge from my covered cave. My body is a jungle. At least, it is still that unfamiliar to me. I’ve slashed through all the vines, but my body grows more. It’s hiding its secrets in its foliage. Let me axe down the trees. The bark splinters my fingerprint; I do not leave my own mark anymore. My ankles roll in the soil. They look like bouncy balls. How will anybody know I am not made of rubber? Let me excavate the dirt. Maybe I will find something beautiful in my pores. Each new popped pimple coats my city skin in ash. The people inside of me scream, and I know this is how I will always be remembered: as someone who is on the verge of exploding. Let me sweep the remains of my crusted blood caking the bedsheets I haven’t changed in six months. My body is constantly leaving itself where it shouldn’t be- constantly not picking up after itself. My body is an unwanted house guest,

except it is the house

& the walls’ cracks seep the blood

& the ceiling fan sprays the blood

& the bedsheets are married to the blood

& the kitchen knives slurp the blood

& the toilets are nightclubs for the blood

& I can’t afford rent anywhere else because it costs more bravery than I can muster to leave.

Let me pry off my own breasts- split open my chest. From it pours thousands of gold coins- each tossed into my fountain mouth; wishes that one day I will survive this. I mean, I have survived this. My body is still a jungle: untamable and

unimaginably alive.

Cameron Chiovitti, born in Montreal, Quebec, is working towards their BFA in creative writing at OCAD University in Toronto, Ontario. They use poetry to explore what it truly means to be human through the context of their experiences. All of their work currently available online can be found here: https://linktr.ee/maskofpoetry.