Bare, thick thighs you have never done me wrong. You have always been of ghostly perfection on my body. Every man who has had the pleasure of using your incredible sloppy waltz, I guess you can say that they got what they came for. My leg; you attach. Cunning limb. Of all the fleshy joints and bends, you honor me the most by keeping me up as much as I possibly can (but I fall tremendously like avalanches and your disappointing remorse is to give me beautiful purple and pulpy bruises that hurt when I sit.) When you fail, dearest thighs, you feel dead and pickled. My lush, helpless thigh, of unmeasurable doubt, you have beat me up bland and of visceral sunset. You have left me ill and tired on unknown beds and couches and floors; that I deserved. Reaching to my hair, I cannot believe it. You have tangled yourself in my dead cells, you feel the baby pulse of my forgotten softness. Or the baby-soft that only knows it exists when it is hard to walk without pain. I thank you, my fat-clad thigh of muscle and tug, of strong grasp and dinosaur strength. You shovel my bones through my skin and prepare my hips for prickly beards and cracked lips. These dirty unfamiliar platonic faces, you have put your finger upon me and then deeper into my waxed joy; disinfecting me like a linoleum cafeteria floor. My stoned yet virginal happiness drags onward. My stale body part, and godly sun-lit canvas. Pollinated, pure. Sectioned and divided thigh, I cannot even mark up your silicon base, your hamstring cove without feeling it endlessly. Sometimes I feel that I have deceived you. Your stretch mark smile has turned into a limp frown and your nauseating nakedness makes me cry. I have carved your scarlet innards. Your pink fluffy gut. We have been inseparable until now, perky thigh. I often resent when I sit on my bed and you touch like a magnetic force. We are traveling together and I cannot face you. My greatest gift humming in your veins, blue terrestrial thigh. Mother of cold fingertips and of men I cannot seem to forget. Beautiful pale thigh, powdered white with gardenia dust. My best friend.
Brittany Brown is an artist, poet, memer and feminist peach living outside of Philadelphia. Her work has been published in Philosophical Idiot, Quail Bell Magazine and Witch Zine. You can follow her Instagram for writing and art at @bluesforspacegirl.