Belly

My belly, edged and fleshy, carries my shame, is my shame.
I force it in when I pass by, pulling so hard
I can almost feel the muscles tear like cloth,
imagining that sound when it nearly rends apart with the effort.
I despise that I care what they think of my pouchy belly,
but I hate their contempt and dismissal more,
eyes sliding over me,
assessing me slickly,
disregarding me swiftly.
The loss of an interest I never should have wanted
gives tooth to the smooth wood of my ego,
roughens its veneer, hard fought, dearly won.
Combatively, I try and remember
caresses felt, a rough palm over this stretched,
ridged skin marked with scars of expansion,
my breath fluttering,
or a child's head burrowed deeply there,
arms thrown around my hips as I soothe his worry,
brushing the tangled hair away from his ear with a cool, sure hand.