Notes on My Body at Nineteen Years Old

by | Jul 21, 2015 | Poetry

Like it is nothing, my mouth moves to secede.

Breathe like a mountain caving in. Breathe


and pick apart my mirrored image,

the curve my teeth. Leave


behind my cracked ribs. Shut my eyes.

Leave behind my uneven breasts,


the knobs of my legs beyond the thighs,

the color of my lies in the toilet bowl.


I remember learning all the ways my body

was a death sentence. And it is.


In the morning, I pour last night’s coffee

into the sink. Drink another beer,


throw up clear water in the afternoon,

learn nothing. Nightly I am reborn, colder


in the same skin: the one

unholy thing I cannot let go.

Photo by Galaxies and Hurricanes


About The Author

Hadley Hutchens

Hadley Hutchens is a poet and student from Arlington, Virginia. Her poetry has been recently published in Off the Coast, Tipsy Lit, and In Parentheses, among others. She collects books and bottle caps.