I think if there was a land
upon which my worries fell,
it would be the same land
in which my worries were bottled,
and back to me, they’d sell.

So I’ll tell them I won’t do business
with worries no longer mine,
and I watch as they draw their needles
and paint circles around my lines.

They’ll promise me quick fixes
and correct my misshapen jaw —
how all the things that make me me
should be ‘corrected’ as a flaw.

The rolls of skin that drape
have curved me like the sand —
ancient dunes upon my body,
but villainised upon this land.

And though their text is tempting,
the model of the chic,
I’ll still refuse the needle,
and I’ll love me like the freak.