My body wears no armor, how lucky it’s got me. I keep it warm in pencil skirts, it gets it all for free. My body has a stock portfolio of poetry, lipgloss & stews. It never feels fed enough & constantly spews. My body does not play by rules, it does what I would not. I’m fond of eggs, Netflix, words, it only finds bodies hot. My body turns out all types of trash like dead cells, migraines & tears. I work it out, shampoo it, keep it tidy from bunions to ears. My body knows no street smarts, just calculus, Hulu & lust. I stand by it as it breaks to pieces & heal it in good trust. My body hasn’t thanked me yet, it loves dismantling me. I shove it Sisyphus-style uphill & let it nap along the sea. My body never talks to me, it has no social skill. I cater to its slightest whimsy, it’s waiting for the kill.
Grace Lynn (she/her/them) is an emerging painter who lives with a chronic illness. Her work explores the intersections between faith, the natural world, art and the body. In her spare time, Grace enjoys listening to Bob Dylan, reading suspense novels and investigating absurd angles of art history.
