On Nakedness

A Poem by jessicawrites

On men, romance, nakedness, and time.

I look at a naked photo of me, one with my back to the camera and where I'm looking out some window. It was taken by a brief lover, a passing man. He came into my life as suddenly and as mysteriously as he left it. When he took that image, however, he was mine and I was his.

I've been claimed by many a man - by Paul who reduced me to my sexuality, by Karlo who made made me feel beautiful, by Joseph who thought me a muse, and by that passing man, Dantes. I've bared parts of my soul to each one at some points in my life. At the peak of my experiences with them, I wished for eternity.

Yet no matter the intensity of a flame, fire yields and dissipates and disappears. No matter how lively a thing, it dies. How it felt to be naked with Dantes, I can only remember by so much; for when he left, he brought with him the version of a world where he and I intertwined.

My body is mine. That's the truth. That's what I've learned after being loved and discarded, admired and scorned. I let go of my body temporarily in bed, but it returns to me. I am it; it is I.