Here are the things I don’t normally talk about:
I snore. I said it.
Popping zits is strangely satisfying. So is peeling sunburnt skin.
I like the look of earwax, color of snot, the stray eyebrow hair.
I’ve never seen Game of Thrones. I read the first book, and the memes.
I tried once, years after it started, but I couldn’t stomach the casual violence
against women, the sexualization of children.
I had an abortion. It was safe.
I wasn’t worried about handcuffs.
It’s complicated. It’s simple.
My skin is a map of stretch-marks and freckles.
My hair gets grayer every year, the streak spreading
above my forehead.
I didn’t use the word for years.
I don’t regret it.
by Keri Withington
Editor’s Note: This poem’s speaker unapologetically tackles difficult subjects, because poetry (and other art) must sometimes do the hard work of speaking aloud those things which we all know to be true, but are often afraid to say.