No man's land

I’ve never been intimate with anyone.

Not physically anyway.

I’ll give every other part of myself, but my body?

It carries too much weight.

My trauma, on the other hand? No problem,

I’m an open book. My love? Take it, it’s yours.

But there’s something about sharing my body

that I’ve never wanted to force.

It’s alluring knowing no one has seen 

my peaks and valleys or the constellation 

of freckles that peppers my left calf.

I’ve allowed no one to wander my countryside,

and forge their own path.

Because my body tells a tale with

every ripple and crease.

From the stretch marks on the inside

of my thighs to the scar on my knee.

Its story is one of divine femininity,

written in a language very few people can read.

It feels deeply sacred choosing 

to withhold certain parts of myself.

Preferring to wait for intimacy that’s 

soft and heartfelt.

My choice to remain abstinent is not one

based on fear or faith.

My decision is rooted in the belief, the hope,

the dream, that the right person 

will be well worth the wait.

But in the meantime, I take pleasure in knowing 

I hold all the power not between my legs but in my hands.

Because until I say otherwise, my body will remain

no man’s land.