there is no textbook man,
no sculpted man,
no portrait of the artist
formally known as man--
there is only you as He,
imperfected body crafted
by trembling hands,
clay-caked palms forging your curves,
the tiniest fingers curling
each hair on your chest,
your legs,
just below your gut,
the places where i leave traces
of sticky chapstick
as i pull the curls from my teeth.
your skin is stained,
textured by countless summers,
expertly baked in the sun
as the sweat beads cradle your temples,
something much like a crown (but you know it isn't),
like a king, your chest juts out,
feigning order and control
over your battlefields, your sensory overloads--
i can feel your heart beat thick
through your layers of insecurities,
the one part of you i long to chip away.